


An Unexpected Heist

by TechnicolourGrey



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, An Unexpected Heist, Corporate AU, Gen, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:05:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TechnicolourGrey/pseuds/TechnicolourGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin Oakenshield is the wretched heir to a fortune which was stolen from him and left him orphaned. Now he wants it back, with nothing but an unlikely crew of aspiring robbers and not-burglars let loose on London to aid him against the power of the tyrannous and manipulative Smaug. Modern corporate AU, inspired by Radagasts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unexpected Party

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a gif set on Tumblr, made originally by Radagasts. (radagasts.tumblr.com/post/39513478341)

In a bungalow in London, there lived a man. Not a grotty bungalow, full of ooze and crack addicts, nor a stylish contemporary bungalow, with barely an architecturally-inspired stool to sit on, nor an old person’s bungalow which smelt vaguely of cat fur and stale biscuit. This was a bachelor’s bungalow, and that meant comfort.

The rooms were small in the quaint little habitat, but nonetheless homely. The hallway was inhabited by a coat-stand which always held only one coat, and two pairs of loafers which lived together on the mopped-to-sparkling laminate floor. A copy of L. S. Lowry’s _Going to Work_ dominated the hallway wall leading into the living room; by far the homeliest room in the house, it had two fraying sofas with sewn-on patches to hide the scuffed cushions, a glass coffee table on a red rug bordered by tassels, a fuzzy television, a small radio, and a glass cabinet of worthless crockery.

The lounge led on to all other rooms like the heart of an ant hill – the clinically clean bathroom, the minimalist bedroom with its white sheets and copy of the latest bestseller on the oak bedside table, the cosy kitchen with its pantry and cupboards full to bursting with food and tins. The garden was well-kept, with a straight stone pathway leading from the squeaky gate to the front door; the door itself was unusual, wooden and painted green, curved in an arch at the top with a golden letterbox in the centre, but other than the little home was completely ordinary.

It was this little bungalow which housed Bilbo Baggins, a short man with a fair complexion and hair the colour of light straw. He was pleasant in his speech but quiet and generally shy in his demeanour. He worked alone in an office and lived alone in his home; it wasn’t that he didn’t like people, or guests, it was just that everyone in London had a very set agenda. Somewhere to be, someone to see. Home or work they just did not stop. And so Bilbo Baggins found himself grown up and alone in a house which he had only recently grown to like; the bungalow was built for his mother by his father, albeit with some of her funding, and when he inherited it he had always wanted to alter the décor but never really got round to it.

Like a well-oiled machine, the round, golden mantle clock in the living room was chiming ten o’clock when Bilbo rose out of bed on a midsummer’s morning. It was no extraordinary morning: just like every other, the birds were chirping outside, the sun was throwing itself obnoxiously through the blinds in his bedroom, and the babbling noises of one man who was either staggering home from the night before or had started drinking ridiculously early passed by.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Bilbo emerged from his bedroom and padded, bare-footed, to the kitchen. “Good morning, Bilbo,” he muttered to himself, absently turning on the radio before stumbling into the kitchen. His hair was still ruffled, sticking up at the back without surrender even when he smoothed it down with his hand, and he had pulled on a baggy once-white-turned-grey shirt and a pair of trousers which were too big for him.

Yawning widely, Bilbo clicked the kettle into a dull grumble as he picked out his favourite mug from the dishwasher and milk from the fridge. “Hard part over,” he pondered to himself, padding towards the hallway. “Let’s see what today’s news brings.”

 _The Daily Shire_ lay rolled up on the welcome mat awaiting him, as well as the rectangular brown envelopes which Bilbo was more inclined to ignore. He stretched his arms, experimentally arched his back and carefully picked them up before taking them back to the living room. On the middle pages he absently opened it, hoping to ignore all the doom and gloom of the front pages, and scanned the words dully. “A hedgehog running a blog?” he chortled softly, “my, what will they think of next?”

He left the paper on the sofa as the kettle shrilly whistled, pouring water and milk into his mug and feeling awake and refreshed enough to look down and realise that he had forgotten a teabag.

“It’s going to be one of those days,” Bilbo sighed.

Having retried and finally assembled a proper drink, Bilbo settled down with his cup of tea on his patchy sofa, reaching for a chocolate digestive from the nearby biscuit tin and bringing his feet up to rest on the coffee table. He wiggled his toes and dunked the biscuit carefully, sighing in contentment; today nothing would go wrong. It was a day of comfort and relaxation, warmth and immobility, where no unexpected things would happen.

Then, all of a sudden, and rather unexpectedly, there was a knock at the front door.

Bilbo’s brow instantly furrowed. Who on Earth could it be? The postman? No, no, he had already been with the usual bills and flimsy Co-op catalogue. A special courier? No, he hadn’t ordered anything online recently, Christmas was six months previous and no one remembered his birthday even if it was the right time of year to celebrate it. Someone who was looking for someone else and found the wrong flat? No, the knocks were too forceful, too calculated, three dull, resonating _boom_ s with a heartbeat in between each one. For a good few moments Bilbo sat still, wondering what to do. After all, his feet were already up, and he was already comfortable with his biscuit. Perhaps if he pretended he wasn’t in they would go away. Probably just a Jehovah’s Witness, or a pock-marked ragamuffin with a flyer for the newly opened takeaway down the road.

After a few moments of deafening silence he tried to settle down again. Still on edge, he shifted uncomfortably, seeming to sense that some presence was still looming just down the hall, on the other side of his front door. Looking down and seeing most of his digestive floating in bits on the top of his tea was the last straw. Careful to aim for a coaster, he haughtily slammed down his mug and padded to the front door with every intention to show the peace-breaker a piece of his mind.

Upon wrenching the door open, however, he found himself quite lost for words. He had expected some gangly youth, or a shoddily dressed middle-aged charity collector of some sort. The man who stood in front of him in the doorway was nothing of the kind: thin and lean, he was at least a half a foot taller than Bilbo, dressed in a sharp grey suit and tie. He was just as thin of face, cleanly shaved though his grey hair was flecked with white and cut short. His forehead and the corners of his eyes were wizened like the spine of a well-loved book, his line of a mouth pursed. His eyes, however, softened his entire demeanour – wise and bright, they seemed to betray hidden depths, secrets and understanding past Bilbo’s comprehension.

For a few seconds, both men stood silent, observing one another. Bilbo could swear that he had seen this man – this _stranger_ – before, but could not seem to place his face. He picked at his baggy and stained, feeling particularly underdressed, and stared up at the man expectantly. He waited for an introduction, but none came. The stranger continued to merely stare with strangely amused eyes.

Bilbo could feel the steady prickle of being far out of his comfort zone crawl up the back of his neck, and cleared his throat. His eyes wandered to the painting in the hallway, the Lowry which was so familiar to him, and, reassured, finally found the confidence to speak: “Good morning.”

“Is it? I believe there were multiple crashes in the stock exchange, a collision on Denbigh Street and a two hour traffic jam on the M25.”

Bilbo laughed shrilly. The stranger continued to stare. Bilbo noticed he didn’t seem to blink. “Well the M25 was always the devil’s work,” he shrugged conversationally, ohpeing to appease the stranger. His smile dwindled when no response came from the man in grey. “Can I help you?” he asked, feeling himself lose patience.

The reply was slow and deliberate: “I am looking for someone to share in an adventure.”

Bilbo blinked twice, waiting for the ‘April fool’s!’. However it was not April, and this man certainly did not look like a fool. “Well there are plenty of people in London, most of whom I’m sure would be pleased to take part in an” – he coughed – “adventure. But you shall not find one here.” He began to close the front door. “Maybe if you try Bert, in the house two doors down on the left, I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige.” The door was almost closed. “Good morning.”

The door was nearly closed when the stranger spoke again, more sternly. “To think I would be good morninged by Belladonna Took’s son, as if I were selling double glazing at the door!”

Bilbo opened the door a fraction and peered out. Puzzled brown eyes met piercing blue. “How did you..? Do you know me?”

“It seems growing up has addled your mind, young Bilbo.”

“You know my na-?”

“Why yes I do, Mr. Bilbo Baggins, and you know mine, though you do not seem to remember I belong to it. I am Gandalf!”

“Gandalf… Gandalf! Good gracious!” He opened the door further. “Not the fellow who used to tell such excellent stories at parties? Not the gentleman who made particularly excellent fireworks!” A smile split his face. “I remember those! They used to go up like great lilies and snapdragons and laburnums and…” He trailed off, twirling his hand in the air as though to further emphasise his point. “Bless me, life used to be quite inter-…” He cleared his throat.

Gandalf filled the faltering silence. “Well, I’m glad you remember me for something, even if it is just my ostentatious displays of pyrotechnics on a Bonfire Night. All the same I am pleased you remember something about me, and so that is not without hope. Indeed for your old grandfather Took’s sake, and for that of poor Belladonna, I think I will send you on this adventure.” More to himself than to Bilbo, he added, “Very amusing for me, very good for you – and profitable too, very likely, if you ever get over it.”

“Sorry, I… What? No, no! No, thank you, I don’t want any adventures. Not today, not tomorrow.” He pushed the door closed again, peering out through the smallest crack. “Perhaps you will try nearer the centre of town, or over in Knightsbridge, I’m sure they’re very brave and interested in adventures there. I, uh… Good morning!” Bilbo hastily slammed the door and locked it, breathing heavily. He waited a little, to see if Gandalf would knock again, but none came. Instead, there was a noise from the other side of the door like a soft scratching. Brow furrowing, Bilbo knelt down and looked through the letterbox to see the back of a grey suit striding down the manicured driveway. The figure pocketed a flash of light.

Bilbo, breathing a sigh of relief, straightened up. _My tea will be cold now,_ he thought glumly, before returning to the living room and deciding to get a cake or two to help him forget the whole unexpected business.

The unexpected business, however, did not forget him.

***

A few hours later, perhaps seven or eight, when the mantle clock was chiming six o’clock, Bilbo was pottering about the kitchen. The window was open as the summer evening was warm and crisp, accompanied by the scent of freshly-cut grass and the sound of an ice cream van meandering somewhere near. The sky resembled a watercolour of deep purple clouds, dabbed pink with cotton wool and smeared with thick strokes of red and orange around the horizon as the sun set.

Humming, Bilbo kept watch over numerous pans which were sizzling and hissing and spitting on the hob, cooking bacon and egg and sausage and all the pleasant parts of a good British fry-up. Toast which was slightly burnt on one side and white on the other sprang out of the toaster with a feeble _bleep bleep bleep_. Bilbo threw it onto a plate and piled it high with his cooked foodstuffs, sitting down at the kitchen table with a napkin and a matching silver knife and fork.

Bilbo smiled to himself, knowing nothing could go wrong. Nothing could possibly interrupt him. He lowered his knife and fork to take a first bite of food, when—

 _Boom boom boom._ The heavy knocks at the front door reverberated around the little house.

“Who could..?” Bilbo pondered, setting down his cutlery. He stared wistfully at his food before rising, leaving his napkin on the table. Before he could even get to the hallway, however, the knocks rang through the bungalow again, more insistently – _Boom boom boom!_

“Hold on, hold on!” Bilbo called, bristling at the rudeness. “Well at least I know it’s not Gandalf again,” he muttered to himself, “he was much more patient.” He unlocked the door, mouth open in readiness to form sharp words to shoo whoever presented themselves away. Despite this, he soon found his tongue stumbling over them, unable to formulate any utterance at all.

The person standing in the doorway was a man he had never seen before: not much taller than Bilbo himself but significantly older, he was bald and large of build, with broad shoulders and a thick neck. He sported a greying moustache and a thick duffle coat, and gazed at Bilbo with bright eyes.

“Dwalin, at yer service,” the man said gruffly, when words continued to elude Bilbo. “Is this where it is then?”

“Where… where what is?” Bilbo sputtered, but the stranger was already pushing through the door, as though he had been expected all along. He hung up his jacket on the coat stand and straightened his t-shirt – Bilbo spotted numerous faded tattoos on his arms – before thumping through to the living room; _without even taking off his shoes!_ Bilbo realised in horror.

“Dinner, lad! He said there’d be food.”

“Well, it’s in the kitchen, but no, wait, you can’t come in here! I don’t even know who you are!” Bilbo cried, hastily closing the door and following after the intruder. He adopted his sternest and most firm voice. “You must leave at once!”

Dwalin, however, was already making himself comfortable at the dinner table, sneering at the plate of food. “What’s this? Breakfast? What time do you think this is, lad?” the allegedly-called Dwalin muttered, “where’s the proper dinner?”

“It’s kind of a, uh, second breakfast?” Bilbo answered meekly, “it’s nice for dinner too.”

“Hmph,” Dwalin harrumphed, but speared a sausage and set to eating it anyway. “Don’t have anything different, d’you lad?”

“Well I uh… No! No, I do not, not for any strangers! Now get out of my house before I-I… I call the police!”

Dwalin stared hard at him from the dinner table. “I’m sure you don’t want any trouble, lad.”

Bilbo paled. “Are you threatening me?”

“Not if you’re getting something else for me t’eat. And a can of lager if you’re kind enough.”

“Well, yes yes, I…” Bilbo, who liked to think himself very hospitable and not of a disposition idiotic enough to anger a potential sociopath, quickly backed away towards the large fridge. “I suppose.” He placed the can on a coaster on the table before the door sounded again – _boom boom boom._

He looked at Dwalin.

Dwalin looked at him. “That’ll be the door,” he smirked.

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo gushed. _It might be some help, someone telling me they lost a mad uncle Dwalin and are coming to collect him,_ he hoped wildly as he quickly made his way to the front door. On opening it, however, he found that no help seemed to have come. In fact, things seemed to have gotten worse.

The man now at the door was very old-looking, with white wisps of hair poking out from under a bowler hat. He was wearing an ill-fitting suit, with tufts of white beard sprouting like patches of grass from his chin. His smile, however, reached his eyes, and they twinkled kindly. “Balin,” he grinned, tipping his hat, “at your service.”

“Th-thank you,” Bilbo babbled. He knew it was the wrong response, but he had panicked and was taken aback by the man’s amiability.

Balin hung up his suit jacket on the coat stand and nodded wisely as he entered the hallway. “I see they’ve already begun to arrive then.”

“S-sorry,” Bilbo stammered, “they? Who’s is they?”

“Do you have any beer, lad? I’m parched.”

“Uh… yes, yes, of course.” He numbly walked back into the kitchen with Balin in tow, where he found Dwalin in the doorway with the remains of one last piece of toast.

“Brother!” Dwalin exclaimed, his face breaking into a smile, “yer shorter and fatter from since when we last met.”

“Not shorter,” Balin chuckled, moving around Bilbo to embrace his brother. They hugged tightly, slapping one another on the back, before bashing heads so hard that Bilbo felt a little queasy.

 _Perhaps they’re Glaswegian,_ he wondered, pouring a bottle of frothy beer into a glass and taking it to Balin – but the two brothers were not where he left them. He soon found them huddled in the pantry, looking over the breads and cakes and muttering to one another.

“Look, gentlemen,” he started meekly, placing the beer on the nearest surface, “I must put my foot down now. I barely even know you other than your names and though I am quite happy to accept guests, gosh I even like guests, I do not like people in my house who I have only met half a minute before, so I must ask you to leave until we are better acquainted, I’m sorry.”

The pair looked at him, both biting into a seedcake each. “Apology accepted,” Balin smiled, before they both turned back and began discussing the collection of pies.

Bilbo opened his mouth to protest when, once again, came the now all too familiar _boom boom boom._ He breathed out a sigh of exasperation and stomped back out into the hallway, wrenching the door open.

Two men, one fair and one dark of hair, stood in the doorway. The dark-haired man was the taller of the two, but both were clean-shaven and young, in fashionable clothing and with the same deep eyes. The former stood with his back straight and head high, observing Bilbo with a small smile, while the latter smiled wolfishly.

“Fili,” said the fair-haired man, with an incline of his head. “And Kili,” grinned the latter. “You must be mister Swaggins!”

“I- What? No, no, you can’t come in, you’re at the wrong house, goodbye,” Bilbo exclaimed as he tried to shut the door.

“What? Has it been cancelled?” Kili growled, jamming the door open with his foot.

“Nobody told us,” Fili added, pushing the door further open.

“Canc- No nothing’s been cancelled, I just-”

“Oh, that’s a relief!” Kili’s smile returned and he barged his way into the hallway, throwing his long coat onto Bilbo’s arm. Fili briskly followed suit, kicking the door shut behind them.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” Bilbo flustered to himself as he hung up the two mens’ coats, hearing sounds of greeting and embrace from the kitchen. “Look,” he shouted sternly through the bungalow, “you all know each other but I don’t know you, so could you- could you put all that food back, please?!”

The men had piled the kitchen table high with the food from his now-empty pantry, and were helping themselves to a buffet, scraping plates and bending forks and clinking glasses and slurping from mugs.

“Get some more chairs, Fili,” Balin said as he helped himself to a warm steak and kidney pie, “won’t be enough room for everyone else to sit down at this point, especially not Bombur.”

“Sorry,” Bilbo started, “but what’s a Bombur? What are you all doing here? No, no, put those chairs back!”

“Kili, catch,” Fili called as he threw seven wooden chairs at him from the bottom of the pantry, ignoring Bilbo. “And another one for Bombur since he won’t fit on one,” he added, tossing another chair.

Kili caught them all and unfolded them, positioning them in a tight circle around the table. Bilbo would have been protesting, but suddenly the door was being knocked on again, this time so violently Bilbo was afraid it would be smashed through.

“Oh, what will the neighbours think?!” he thought desperately, running towards the front door and this time not being surprised that there were five men standing on the doorstep.

“Evening,” said the tallest in a gruff rasp of a voice. He had a shock of ginger hair with a beard to match. “Gloin, at your service. And this is m’brother, Oin, but he doesn’t hear too well.” He clapped the stocky, grey-haired man beside him on the back before ushering himself and his brother over the threshold. This time Bilbo didn’t waste the effort with trying to protest, but let them pass and haphazardly hang up their thick leather coats.

“And you are?” he asked with a defeated sigh to the remaining three.

“Nori,” grinned the closest man, lean of face with a large nose and brown hair slicked back, “and this is Dori, and our youngest brother Ori.” Dori was plump, grey of hair and jowly of face, while the youngest was tall and skinny, with his cardigan sleeves pulled up over his hands despite the humid heat of the darkening summer night.

Nori stepped into the hallway, looking moderately impressed. “It’s bigger on the inside,” he called back to his brothers. Joining Nori, Ori thanked Bilbo with a toothy but shy smile as he stepped over the threshold – Bilbo would have placed him at no older than his mid-teens – and Dori stopped altogether. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Baggins,” he simpered, smiling and holding up a bottle of wine. “This is for you and your hospitality. Oh, a Lowry!” he added, clapping his hands together, “now I do like a man with appreciation for fine art.”

“O-oh well…” Bilbo stuttered, taking it gratefully, “I uh… Thank you.” At least the visitors were getting friendlier, that was something of a relief.

The door was just clicking shut, when from outside came a bellow of, “Oi, lad, that’s no way to treat a guest!”

Bilbo closed his eyes, counted to three, and slowly reopened the door to greet what he hoped was the last of his guests.

By the time he looked back outside, the men walking down the pathway towards his front door were already there. “Bofur, pleased t’meet you.” The man who had shouted grinned, shaking Bilbo’s hand. He was about the same height as Bilbo, with a fur hat on his long, dark brown hair. A golden tooth glinted as he smiled. “And this here is my brother, Bifur,” he added, jabbing his thumb towards the man beside him, who looked similar apart from his hair being untamed and black, with a bleached stripe of white.

“Oh well uh… Hello Bofur, Bifur,” Bilbo began, trying to remember all the names of the men who had entered his house in the last hour.

Bofur leant forwards and lowered his voice. “Just do you know, he had an accident and doesn’t speak too well. Or at all for that matter.”

Bifur nodded and shrugged, moving over the doorstep behind his brother.

“Oh, and also, that waddling down the path now is Bombur,” Bofur added, pointing out towards a large ginger man, “he doesn’t speak much either. He prefers to eat.” He clapped Bilbo on the shoulder and disappeared through to the living room, to loud shouts of merriment and glee.

Sure enough, Bombur wandered over the threshold, took off his coat and hung it up on the already over-crowded coat stand, gave Bilbo an “Awright!” before meandering into the house.

Bilbo breathed in heavily and leant against the hallway wall, slowly exhaling. “Please let that be the last,” he whispered, closing his eyes and wishing that his twelve – or was it thirteen? Or eleven? – unexpected visitors would go and bother someone else for a little while.

“I can assure you that they are all, Bilbo Baggins,” came a soft and amused voice. Bilbo opened his eyes to see Gandalf standing in the doorway, the sides of his mouth twitching. “Although one will be joining us later.”

“You?!” Bilbo gasped, “you arranged this… _assault_ on my house?”

“Now now, Bilbo, let’s not get hot-headed,” Gandalf chided, “do remember your manners. Isn’t is customary to offer friends at the door a drink?”

“Well… yes, I suppose,” he sighed, knowing defeat. “Come in, Gandalf, come in. Do you want tea?”

“A little red wine I think, if you have it,” he acquiesced gratefully, removing the jacket of his suit and hanging it up on the coat stand. “And then, I shall explain all.” Cursing as his head collided with the low-hanging ceiling light, he put his arm around Bilbo’s shoulders and led him into the living room. Behind them, Bilbo heard the coat-stand capsize under the weight of the many articles, and closed his eyes in frustration.

“Oh dear,” murmured Gandalf, and Bilbo, knowing events even more unexpected were about to happen, could not agree more.


	2. Thorin Oakenshied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to my long-suffering better half who wrote out the majority of Bilbo's contract from The Hobbit film and adapted it to fit this fic (I picked and chose certain passages from this to put in this chapter). If interested the entire contract can be found at www.chardonneret.tumblr.com/termsandconditions/.

It was not late into the evening before Bilbo wondered what on Earth he had let into his house.

None had removed their shoes, and so there was mud in the unlikeliest of places, the toilet had been blocked and overflowed at least twice, and someone using the bathroom definitely couldn’t aim. There had not been enough plates in the cupboards for the entire buffet and for each dwarf, and consequently Bilbo had resorted to taking out the plates from his mother’s crockery collection with a meek plea of, “Please don’t crack these, they’re valuable.”

The men collectively were by no means a civilised bunch. They slapped when they ate their food and snorted while they drank, talked with their mouths full and shouldered each other brutally, spat and cursed, bustled and roared. Bilbo found himself between Gandalf, who sat at the head of the table with a glass of red wine and a pork pie, and Bofur, who was just as loud as the other eleven men but at least seemed to eat less, just preferred to play with his knife and fork. Which was just as well, because Bombur appeared to eat enough for both of them and then some more; he sat directly opposite from Bilbo at the other end of the table, and at no point did Bilbo see his plate empty.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo whispered, leaning over so that no one would hear, “what are they all doing here? Who are they? They’ve trudged dirt all over the living room carpet and eaten me out of house and home, and you still haven’t explained why they’re here.”

“All in good time, my dear Bilbo, all in good time. There’s still one of out party who is yet to arrive.”

“Another?” Bilbo leant back in his seat and wanting nothing more than to put his head in his hands and disappear. Instead he looked up expectantly at Gandalf in anticipation for some more information on this mysterious newcomer.

Gandalf seemed to be too preoccupied to divulge, however. “Mm,” was all he responded with, and he instead took an intricately carved mahogany pipe with a strangely long stem out of his trouser pocket.

While Bilbo watched expectantly, he placed it between his lips, patted down the tobacco in the bowl and lit it with a just as intricately carved Zippo lighter which he took out of the same pocket. Only when he had inhaled deeply and blown a large smoke ring over the raucous crowd of men did he glance back at Bilbo and see his anticipative expression. “Oh, I’m sorry, were you saying something? I seem to have completely forgotten what we were talking about?”

“Nothing,” grumbled Bilbo, “it doesn’t matter, I’m sure I’ll find out soon anyway. I can’t help but think you’re trying to deliberately avoid the subject though.”

“Kili, give Oin his hearing aid back, we all know you can’t juggle,” Gandalf chuckled, and then Bilbo was certain he was eluding mentioning the final guest.

At that moment, however, he had more to do than worry about what would soon be coming through the front door. Kili, who apparently couldn’t juggle, had taken to juggling three of his mother’s plates, and his brother had soon followed suit. Then they decided it would be fun to toss them between each other, with shouts of “Hey!” from the rest of the men each time a plate was successfully caught.

“No, no, please don’t do that!” Bilbo cried, standing up, “you’ll break them! And don’t do that, you’ll blunt the knives!” he added to Bofur, who was having a minor cutlery fight with Nori and Bifur.

“Oooh, are you worried we’ll bend the forks, too?” goaded Bofur.

“Oh gosh no, my dear Balin, the best year for football was certainly 1966! Nineteen matches undefeated and a world cup home to us!” Dori boasted loudly.

Balin’s reply was just as animated. “Until we thrashed you the year after at Wembley!”

Chaos soon descended: Fili and Kili had decided their game was too simple and had taken to skipping round the kitchen as they tossed plates to one another, with Oin’s hearing aid now added back into the torrent of flying objects which he was trying desperately to grab as it flew over his head; Balin and Dori had fallen into a heated debate of how it was or wasn’t a thrashing; Dwalin was drinking lager from two cans at once; Bifur had grown bored of the knife fight and was tugging on a thread on Ori’s jumper; Ori, unaware, had pulled out a harmonica and was playing a vibrant tune while Gloin stepped up onto the table to kick the plates off and dance, stomping and waving his arms like a stocky, ginger manatee. In the midst of the pandemonium, Bombur kept on eating, Gandalf clapped his hands and chuckled, and Bilbo felt himself getting increasingly pale and weak at the knees, all cries of protest and horror lost in his throat since he knew they would all be futile.

Then it came; stronger and more forceful than ever: _boom boom boom._

The harmonica hit a high, screeching note and made no more sound as every head turned towards the hallway. Gloin hurriedly got down from the table and straightened up, as though to hide any evidence of his misbehaviour. Silence reigned over the kitchen, save for the smashing of plates as Fili and Kili froze and failed to catch the ones which were sailing in mid-air towards them.

Bilbo would have been angry had he not been so anxious; he could feel the tension around him like water, suffocating. He watched the front door with wide eyes, and tried to hide his shaking hands. _What is going on?!_

Only Gandalf spoke to break the silence. He sighed, blowing out a thin wisp of smoke, and nodded solemnly. “He is here.”

The next thing Bilbo knew he was at the door with Gandalf at his back, a wizened hand holding his shoulder in a way he assumed was meant to be comforting. He could sense the bated breath and watchful eyes of every man on him as they huddled in the living room, looking through the doorway into the hall. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he pulled on the handle, straightening up for whoever stood on the other side.

He needn’t have, as the stranger would have been a great deal taller and more majestic than Bilbo no matter how he stood: as soon as the door was open, the man who seemed to inspire so much apprehension moved his gaze from the floor to Bilbo. His eyes were dark under deep-set brows, his face angular and shadowed by five o’clock stubble. Thick dark hair framed his face and brushed his broad shoulders, covered by a dark suit which was tailored but clearly had experienced a lot of wear. Though the top two buttons were undone, his shirt snugly fit his chest.

He looked Bilbo up and down, scrutinising him, before speaking. “Gandalf,” he murmured softly in greeting. His voice reminded Bilbo somewhat of the rumble at the depths of an active volcano. He stepped over the threshold and shut the door behind him, glancing disdainfully at the coat-stand still lying on the floor. “Shame this place wasn’t easier to find. I was doing rings on the M25, trying to find the right turn-off. Good thing you put that mark on the door.”

“Uhm, excuse me,” piped up Bilbo, suddenly finding his tongue. He became all too aware of how high his voice was. “There are no marks on that door, I only painted it last mo-”

Gandalf hurriedly cleared his throat, confessing, “There _is_ a mark, I put it there myself. But let us not dally on that.” He tried to suck on his pipe, only then realised it had gone out and returned it to his pocket. “We have much more important matters to attend to. Bilbo, this is Thorin Oakenshield, the leader of our company. Thorin, this is Bilbo Baggins, your burglar.”

“Baggins?” Bilbo heard Kili hiss to his brother, “you told me it was Swaggins!”

Thorin closed his eyes and counted to ten before speaking again. “You don’t look much of a burglar,” he muttered gruffly, once again looking Bilbo up and down. “How much experience have you got?”

Bilbo felt the eyes of every man on him and a misplaced sense of pride straightened his back. “Well I’ve uh… stolen plenty in my time, if you must know,” he replied, noticing that his voice seemed to deepen as though in an attempt to match the low growl of Thorin. “I even once borrowed the first DVD from my friend’s Heroes box set and never gave it back but I fail to see how that is uh… relevant.” He felt his voice go quiet and his words trail off as the men around him tittered and guffawed behind their hands.

“I thought as much. He looks more of a priest than a burglar,” muttered Thorin, with no hint of amusement. “Nevertheless, you may show more promise as the night wears on.” He looked up at Gandalf with a look that plainly said, _He’d better do, or else._

Gandalf chuckled and motioned Thorin into the living room. “There should be some food left if Bombur has not yet eaten it all, why don’t you sit and eat a while before we get down to business?”

Thorin wordlessly moved through into the kitchen, clapping Kili on the shoulder as he passed, and the others followed to in a much more subdued manner.

As soon as he was sure no one was watching, Gandalf slumped against the nearest wall and breathed out heavily. “Well,” he smiled heartily, “that went better than expected.”

***

By the time Thorin had eaten, night had settled on the little bungalow. The lights in the kitchen were on, but the rest of the house was eerily still and dark. Bilbo was quite alarmed by the sudden change in his numerous visitors. With all of their help the table had been cleared, the dishwasher filled, and all men but two had situated themselves around the kitchen table with no more hustle and bustle, no roars or curses or jokes; Thorin had learnt of the smashed plates on the floor being the fault of Fili and Kili, had referred to them as ‘scum of my sister’ and told them both to get a dustpan and brush to clean it before they joined the adult’s table.

“Now,” Thorin began, and all strands of hushed conversation which were being held ceased, “to the matter at hand. Bofur, Bifur, Balin, Dwalin, I apologise you have to listen to this again, but I believe that a few words of explanation are needed for those of you who don’t know completely of my predicament, or know it only in fragments, especially our… burglar.”

Bilbo squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, wishing he could disappear.

“My grandfather was a good man,” he began grimly, looking each man in the eyes as though challenging them to claim anything different. “He worked with gold, diamonds and precious metals to create and sell jewellery in the centre of town. He worked independently, and for a long time lived comfortably, enough to give his wife and son a good life. He was a hard worker, a revered and respected artisan and a master of his craft. But then all changed when the corporate men in ties and shined shoes came, whose windows glistened and sparkled with diamonds cut by machines, while my grandfather and my father toiled over casting items of beauty by hand.”

Bilbo watched Thorin’s hand curl into a fist. Fili and Kili quietly joined the table, having picked all the shards of crockery off the floor, while Dwalin quickly rose to get himself and Thorin a beer.

“My grandfather was beginning to lose money. He had to keep his head above water. He did what anyone else would have done to protect their family. He borrowed money from… from some bad people.” To hide his faltering he opened the can placed in his hand and took a few heavy swallows. Ori looked down at the table and played with a loose stitch on his sleeve.

Balin sensed Thorin’s struggle. “His grandfather, Thror, was murdered because of a debt unpaid,” he continued softly, staring down at his clasped hands. “His father, Thrain, went missing, delirious from grief. We haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since.”

A respectful silence hung in the air for a good few seconds before Thorin stirred again. “Despite this, my grandfather and father had a vault. A vault full of a lifetime of skimping and saving, barely existing, to be kept for the next of their line so they may not befall the same fate. _Me._ That vault was meant to be my inheritance. But it was stolen by a man we all thought was a friend of my family, of my father. Smaug.” He raised the can once again and drained it. Bilbo noticed it was concaving under Thorin’s clenching fingers. “Smaug stole my inheritance when I was too young to comprehend what he was doing. But that is not all. Nor is it the worse part. My grandfather, before his descent into debt, had in his possession a huge uncut diamond. It was the treasure of my family, and we often referred to it as the Arkenstone. Passed down to my father from his father, and me from my father. But, as you may have guessed, Smaug stole that too. Last I heard he keeps it in a safety deposit box. I don’t know which one, or what number, but if it kills me I _will_ reclaim it.

“Gentlemen, you must understand, this is not about selfishness, or my own vendetta. This is for the honour of my father, and of my grandfather. Your friends. And if you are to help me, you shall all see your share.”

There was a collective murmur of assent and nodding rippling around the group.

“We’re with you all the way, lad,” Dwalin muttered gruffly, “no matter what we have to do.”

“Wait, wait,” Dori cut in. “Shouldn’t we know what we are being asked to do first?”

“You shouldn’t have to question it,” Dwalin growled.

Balin shrugged. “The lad has a point, Dwalin, don’t be terse.”

“Well to hell with his point.”

“Hey, don’t say that about my brother!”

Very quickly every man bar Bilbo and Gandalf was on his feet, voices raised, fingers pointing and tongues sharp.

“Silence!” Thorin roared, standing violently enough to send his chair crashing backwards. Everyone immediately sat. “I will not see you all honking at each other like geese. You – _we_ – are better than that. I did not bring you all here to squabble amongst ourselves.” Ori fetched Thorin’s chair and he slowly sat back down. “As Dori says, you are certainly all entitled to know what is being asked of you, and I will tell. There is a bank in the centre of London called the LMBC—”

As Thorin carried on talking, Bilbo leant in towards Bofur. “What’s the LMBC?” he whispered.

“Lonely Mountain Banking Corporation,” Bofur replied, lowering his voice to a soft hum. “Smaug owns it. Apparently keeps all of Thorin’s inheritance in a vault called Erebor.”

“Erebor? Why Erebor?”

Bofur shrugged. “We’re not really sure. We think he got it from some book.”

“Ah,” Bilbo nodded, returning his attention to Thorin.

“—until recently I didn’t have the slightest notion on how to get to Smaug, but thankfully Bifur’s skill with computers and hacking has given us a decent headstart. We know vaguely what the bank looks like, the security measures he employs and the workers on his pay roll.”

“So what are we up against, laddie?” Balin asked sombrely.

“Well, of course, we could never expect Smaug to leave things to chance. Not when he’s made a cosy nest for himself in my inheritance.” He smiled grimly. “He has the most advanced safety measures money can buy. Both the vault and safety deposit boxes are in the bank’s basement, which can’t be gotten to without swiping a key card which has authorised access. Anyone else tries to get through and it’s a complete lock-down. Metal grills, alarms, the lot.” He paused as the others around the table shifted, stroking the stubble on his cheek, but briskly continued. “If we manage to get past that, there are thermal imaging CCTV cameras with facial recognition inside and outside the vault.”

Bifur piped up with a string of noises which made no sense to Bilbo, or to many of the others judging by the looks on their faces. However, Bofur quickly took the liberty of translating: “And Bifur thought we should mention there’s also a laser network which can detect a fly’s shite on the wall.”

Thorin glowered, but carried on regardless. “Each vault and the room which contains the safety deposit boxes are accessible only by a three-inch thick metal door, which you need a six digit code to open. There’s also a wireless network which shuts down the steel grills in every room, and the walls are reinforced with titanium, so even if we get in we can’t get out. At night a private security firm comes in to patrol the bank, with tasers, dogs and a bad attitude.” He clasped his hands and pursed his lips. “This is what we’re up against.”

He ended to a stunned and heavy silence.

“Well at least that last bit is some good news,” shrugged Fili.

Gloin harrumphed. “Where’s the good news in any of that?”

“There was an attempted robbery in the LMBC at night one time a couple of years back. By the time the police got there the robbers had been beaten half to death by the security guards.”

“I fail to see the good news,” Nori replied impatiently.

Kili grinned. “If we get caught there might not be enough to lock up.”

“Say something like that again and I’ll send you back home to your mother,” Thorin growled.

Fili and Kili quickly stopped smiling.

“Now we need to act quickly. I have brought you all together because we need to formulate a plan. A plan to avenge my kin, and thus regain the inheritance of Durin, which rightly belongs _to_ Durin!”

While the men cheered assent and raised whatever glasses or cans they had near, Bilbo leant back towards Bofur, whispering, “Durin? I thought his last name was Oakenshield?”

“Changed it when everything was stolen,” Bofur hissed back behind his hand, “‘cause Durin’s too easy to trace, see.”

Bilbo considered this for a second. “Why would Smaug want to trace him?”

“There are things other than Smaug outside that front door, lad,” Bofur murmured, placing his finger to his lips and pointing to Thorin.

Bilbo was not always the quickest to catch on, but from all that he had heard, he could of only one thing more dangerous than Smaug. “The man who killed your grandfather,” Bilbo called out, before he could stop himself, “he’s after you, isn’t he? He’s still trying to find you?”

Thick silence once again descended on the group. Every set of eyes turned to fix on Bilbo like a clay pigeon at a hunting party. Gandalf squeezed his shoulder almost tightly enough to hurt, and he knew then that he had done wrong. He sat back in his seat, feeling like a jelly that was melting.

“Excitable little fellow,” Gandalf murmured softly, making quite a few of them, including Bilbo, start, as they had quite forgotten he was there. He was clearly trying to keep his tone light. “You must not pay too much attention to his outbursts.”

Thorin appraised Bilbo critically, as though determining whether he was worthy of responding or not. “The answer is yes, Baggins. Yes, I have reason to believe he is. I have spent many years wondering how to get to Smaug to retake that which is rightfully mine, but it is growing increasingly more imperative, and this is why I have called you all here tonight. I believe that the man who destroyed my family is closing in on me. He is a Romanian druglord and loan shark who goes by the name of Azog, and he is still looking for his money. That or now the money is unimportant and he is looking to wipe out my family line. I am not sure.

“All I know is that I have assembled you all here tonight because you and your families were or are friends of my kin. All I know is that I cannot do this without you; I cannot put my grandfather’s memory to rest, nor can I sleep soundly knowing I may be hunted in my bed.” He paused long enough to sweep his eyes around the group, meeting those of everyone else. “I do not wish to put this burden on you. On any one of you. If, now you have heard everything, you wish not to assist me, then by all means you are free to leave. In fact I would recommend it in the case of the three youngest.” He glanced at Ori, and stared long and hard at Fili and Kili.

“Hey, we’re your family! We’re not going to leave you to do this alone, Thorin,” Kili rebuked indignantly, and Fili nodded beside him.

“I’m not leaving either, I’m not scared!” added Ori, standing, “I’ll give him a taste of his own medicine right up his-”

“Sit down,” grumbled Nori, pulling his brother back down.

“Then what…” Bilbo began, before everyone could create pandemonium and drown out his voice. “What do you want with… with me?”

Thorin surveyed him with some contempt. “Well Gandalf has told us you are a burglar. Therefore you burgle.”

“I… I burgle?”

“None of us are particularly quick on our feet, laddie,” Balin smiled knowingly. “Either we are too old, too large or too… immature.” He avoided looking at Fili and Kili. “We need someone to zip in the basement to get the Arkenstone while others who are at least capable take as much money as they can from the vault. And that is your job.”

Bilbo, who had been paling throughout the conversation at the thought of being involved in this harebrained idea in the slightest, suddenly felt very sick.

“Balin, give him the contract,” Thorin muttered.

Reaching into the briefcase at his feet, Balin pulled out a lever arch file full of paper. “There you go, laddie. It was written by Gloin and I, so there should be enough information to answer any questions.”

With shaking fingers Bilbo took it and stood, moving over towards the kitchen light so better to read. He flipped through the pages, scanning here and there:

_ Deed of Contract – Conditions of Engagement _

_In role as Burglar for Thorin and Company, or in any other role as seen fit by the Company, at their sole discretion from time to time._

_All conditions imposed herein are deemed to survive loss or destruction of this Document, whether by accidental or wilful mishap, and any reconstruction, re-wording, updating or improvements for additions made shall include a condition similar to this condition, notwithstanding any repetition, redundancy, overstatement or implication hereby recognised or disclosed._

Bilbo scanned aimlessly, growing increasingly numb, until the next paragraph caught his attention.

_I the undersigned [referred to hereinafter as Burglar] agree to—_

He squinted as he struggled to read a part which had been brutally crossed out. “Bust the fuck into the LMBC?” he queried to the table of watchful men.

“I’m afraid Gloin got a little too pen-happy,” Balin sighed. “Sorry if it ruins the mood.”

— _assist and aid in the acquisition of properties lost, taken and reclaimed, owned or previously owned by Thorin Oakenshield or Durin ancestors._

“Just go onto the seventh page, laddie, the most important stuff is on there.”

Bilbo did as he was told, and had to swallow hard.

_Funeral expenses to be defrayed by Company or representative if the occasion arises, and the matter is not otherwise arranged for. Basic funeral to ‘commoner’ or peasant standard is provided for only. Lavish ceremonies and jewelled or gilded coffins not provided. Plain pine box is normal standards._

Squinting, Bilbo brought the contract closer to read the small print.

_Transport of any remains, in whole or part, back to Burglar’s country of origins or next of kin is not included._

_A plaque shall be erected and dedicated in Burglar’s honour if he meets an untimely end in attempting to aid the pilferage_. (The writing became smaller again.) _Material, size and location of such plaque is to be decided at Director’s whim and desire._

_Pilferage undertaken entirely at Burglar’s own risk, financial as well as personal, Present Company shall not be liable for injuries inflicted by or sustained as a consequence thereof, including, but not limited to, lacerations, evisceration, disembowelment, burns, ballistic trauma, abrasions, puncture wounds, contusions. Company remains blameless in all respects for any outcome._

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo uttered, his voice a high squeak, “but puncture wounds? Lacerations?”

“Can never be too careful,” shrugged Bofur. “People have guns out there.”

_This is a joke,_ thought Bilbo numbly, _that’s the only explanation. This has to be a joke. This is a horrible prank._

“So are you in, laddie?” Balin asked, and this time no smile seemed to show on his face.

_Oh my god, he’s serious._

“I uh… I-I’m afraid I have work tomorrow! So I’m afraid I can’t take part in any possible… lacerations or gunfights with a Tasmanian warlord or anything of the sort, so.” He held up his shaking hands and shrugged in apology.

“I knew it,” Thorin growled, “I knew he wouldn’t be able to handle it. He’s not even a burglar, look at him.” The rest of the men acquiesced in a quiet grumble which soon got louder and more rowdy, shouting at Bilbo and one another, until—

“Silence!” Gandalf bellowed as he stood. Quiet once again immediately descended over the table, and even Bombur stopped eating to stare up at him. Bilbo saw no hint of amusement on his face now; his expression was stern, his mouth a hard line and his eyes just as glacial. “If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar than a burglar he is! Now if we may stop this childish nonsense. Bilbo, are you willing to undergo this quest?”

Bilbo laughed shrilly, feeling everything begin to swim before his eyes.

“Potential gun fights,” Bofur goaded, “car chases, looking into the eyes of either life imprisonment or death.”

Bilbo’s knees began to give way.

“Think you can handle that?”

The floor was very quick in its race up to meet his face.

***

“I just can’t do it, Gandalf,” Bilbo pleaded when he had come round enough to regain his senses, sitting on the living room sofa with a blanket on his knees and a sweet tea in his hands. “I can’t! It’s criminal!”

“It’s an adventure, and for the greater good,” Gandalf replied, not unkindly. He placed his pipe in his mouth. “I would trust Thorin with my life, and his has been ruined. Therefore I am going to help him, and I am asking – yes Bilbo, _asking_ you – to please help. I can think of no one else who would be so suited for the job.”

“How can you be so sure I’m suited for it?!” cried the little man, sloshing tea everywhere, “I’m no criminal! I’m not quick or quiet or—”

“You are much too much like your father, Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf muttered around the neck of his pipe as lit it. “Unambitious and content to live a meagre life. Since when did your mother’s plates mean so much to you?” He inhaled deeply and blew out large smoke ring. “If I remember rightly you always hated them anyway. You were always trying to set fire to the cabinet in your younger days. I remember a young boy who was always getting into trouble, always trying to play with the older boys on the park. I distinctly recall once you took one of those chocolate cigarettes to try and impress them.”

Bilbo smiled. “Yes well, I suppose I grew up and got considerably less… Tookish.”

“Yes, well, just think of the things you will be able to tell people when you recount these times you par _took_ in an adventure.”

Bilbo pursed his mouth and chose not to comment.

“I am serious, Bilbo,” Gandalf continued, this time a lot more softly. “What is the point of a comfortable life if you have the ability to help another and choose not to? But that’s exactly it, it is your choice. And no one else can make it for you.”

Bilbo nodded. His mind was set. “Well, I am sorry. I am not my mother. I am Bungo Baggins’ son, and I… I can’t do this.” He shakily stood, tea still in hand. “Goodnight, Gandalf. Tell your friends they can stay the night, if they can all fit in the living room, but I can’t be involved in this. There are blankets and pillows in the utility room. Goodnight.” And with that, he turned and disappeared into his bedroom, where he placed his tea on the bedside table, buried his head under the clean white pillows, fell instantly asleep and knew no more.

***

On the road outside Bilbo Baggin’s quiet little bungalow, in the dead of night when every inhabitant on the street was asleep, a trio of Suzuki Inazuma motorcycles crept down the road. The riders were helmetless, eyes flicking everywhere, searching. The motorbikes growled and snarled beneath them, restless to get back to speeding along the roads, but the riders were patient. Watching. Waiting.

“There!” hissed one through gritted teeth.

Parked along the pavement was a number of cars: one a green Mini, another a light blue and very battered Ford Angliya, a dark Vauxhall Monterey, a Land Rover, a tatty red Ford Capri, a smart car and—

“That’s it!” insisted the man on the bike. He was a youth, pock-marked with scraggly, lank hair and two missing teeth.

“Are you sure?” whispered another, older and with a face covered in scars.

“I’m sure! A 1967 black Chevy Impala! That’s it, that’s his car!”

The man leading the trio, a mature man with a constantly snarling mouth, looked over the car with contempt. “I hope for your sake you’re sure,” he snapped, taking his mobile phone from his pocket and flipping it open. He absently dialled eleven digits, still sneering at the car. “Or the boss will have your guts.”

The youth bristled and folded his arms, but the leader of the trio was too occupied to take any notice.

“Boss? Yeah, it’s Malik. You were right, we’ve found him. Yeah, yeah, we’ll keep an eye on him. No, we won’t, Boss. Don’t worry, you’ll get your Durin soon. Yeah, ‘course, we’re on the way now.” He hung up. “The boss wants us back. Now.”

He looked longingly at the bungalow in which Thorin Oakenshield lay, sleeping fitfully, before kicking his motorbike into a loud roar and speeding off into the streets of London, his two companions in tow.


	3. Plan A

The first realisation that came to Bilbo when he woke was that everything was quiet. He had been roused by bird song a few minutes before his alarm would begin screaming, and so strained to hear any sounds beyond the womb of his bed. He heard nothing.

_Surely fourteen men could not be so silent,_ he pondered, rubbing his eyes and sitting up, _or maybe that was all a dream…_

He switched off his alarm clock before it had chance to go off and swung his legs out of bed, cautiously padding into the living room.

Just as he thought, the room was still and empty. The only signs that someone had actually been in his house at all was a stack of crumpled pillows and rolled up blankets. He peered round into the kitchen, just in case every man had somehow silently crammed themselves in there, but saw nothing bar a closed pantry door, presumably to hide the emptiness inside, and the lever-arch file which he had flicked through the night before, on top of which was a small knitted flower.

Bilbo laughed and punched the air, breathing out a long sigh of relief. He had successfully avoided the entire endeavour! _Now I can just go to work and enjoy a nice, qiuet day,_ he sang smugly to himself, sauntering over to prepare making a cup of tea and forget about every one of the men he had met the night before and would never see again.

As he was getting what little remained of the milk out of the fridge, however, he felt his eyes being pulled to the file, sitting innocuously on the kitchen table. He pushed the fridge gently shut and left the milk on the worktop, moving slowly over to the table as though afraid it may rear up and bite him. He picked up the daisy flower, clearly made delicately from dark green wool – _wasn’t what’s-his-name-youngest-man wearing a sweater in this colour? –_ and absently flicked through the pages of the contract, knowing he’d done exactly the right thing in absolutely denying to aid a group of burly men on an impossible task.

_Or have I?_ queried the niggling feeling at the back of his skull.

“Yes. Yes, of course I have,” Bilbo nodded, I’ve no need for adventures or criminality or anything of the sort.”

He folded his arms. He looked around his cosy bungalow: at the cabinets with the foul plates missing, at the little armchairs and fuzzy old radio which documented stories of excitement which he knew he would never be a part of. He knew that a lifetime of work and home, work and home awaited him, a lifetime of familiarity and paperwork and subways; with his Lowry being his only comfort on his return home because it would remind him so much of a day in his life. He pondered his whistling kettle and blocked plumbing and empty biscuit tin and wondered how long it would be before he felt human contact again.

The next thing he knew he was dressed and grabbing his coat.

***

Bree’s Café was barely ten minutes down the road from Bilbo’s bungalow, and so when the men had been unceremoniously awoken by Thorin to leave at some obnoxious time in the morning, it was there that they had arranged their cars outside like Tetris and holed themselves into. It was quiet and near-empty, the only other occupants being two men in orange overalls sitting together in the corner, completely ignoring the sudden flood of customers, each other and their bacon sandwiches in favour of the sports pages in their respective papers. The tables were plastic, made to look like unconvincing marble, and stained with old food; the bright blue chairs were bolted to the floor so that the fourteen men had to cram themselves around three separate tables, with Bombur taking up two chairs by himself. A till sat on a greasy metal counter, which moped at the edge of the little diner and blocked the door to the kitchen.

Balin was the first to speak once everyone had found a seat, taking off his bowler hat and clasping his hands in front of him. “So. What now?”

All eyes turned to Thorin, but it was Gloin that replied with, “Isn’t that obvious? We get ourselves a new burglar. Gandalf must know someone else.”

All eyes then turned to Gandalf, but this time Thorin spoke: “No. We cannot risk explaining this whole plan to anyone else. We’ve already told Baggins too much, and he could quite easily go to the _police_ now and ruin everything.” He spat out the word like venom on his tongue. “We can’t risk it again. We do this alone. And I know that we can still do it, because I would take all of the men sitting here over a hundred burglars, because you all came when I needed you. Loyalty, that’s what is most important.” The only eyes now on Gandalf were Thorin’s, his stare like that of a judge about to pound his mallet on a guilty verdict. “Not some bumbling imbecile who I doubt could even lift the Arkenstone.”

“I still have every confidence in Bilbo Baggins,” he replied defiantly, a stern note lacing his voice.

“Enough, enough. Does this mean we’ll have tae think up a new plan?” Dwalin grumbled.

A soft cough beside the table which held Bombur, Bifur and Bofur made most of the men jump. A tall woman stood in a tarnished greying apron, holding a pen poised over a thin booklet and absently chewing a piece of gum. She was young but plump, with a mess of short, dark hair. “What can I get for all of you?” she asked, scanning each of the men’s faces with disinterest. Her eyes fixed on Fili and she blew an impressive bubble with her gum.

Before everyone could make an obnoxious rabble in order to answer, Bofur replied jovially with, “I think just, uh, hold on – twelve, thirteen – fourteen teas, please.” The waitress raised an eyebrow and quickly scribbled down a few letters.

“Actually, do you have herbal?” piped up Dori, raising his hand.

The bubble in her mouth popped. “I can sling a bit of lemon in one for you?”

“I um… yes, that would be fine, thank you.”

“And thirteen full English breakfasts. And one vegetarian,” added Bofur.

“Ah, just twelve, please,” Gandalf murmured, smiling up at the young woman, “I’m happy with just the tea.”

The waitress looked around once more as though waiting for any other requests before snapping her notebook shut and disappearing behind the metal counter.

Thorin sighed exasperatedly and stroked his cheek as he considered Dwalin’s question. It rasped. “No… No, we keep the plan. Bofur, you still have your interview, don’t you?”

“Yessir. Today, in fact. Just got to get home and freshen up at some time.”

“Plan? What plan is this?” Gloin harrumphed. “You’ve made no mention of this at any point, nor last night.”

“We couldn’t give Bilbo all the information last night, or he’d have known too much on the chance he said no,” Thorin muttered back, “but if everyone here is still willing to help me, then I shall tell you now. The plan is—”

At that moment, the waitress came bustling back into the diner with a tray in each hand laden with teas. She swung her hips in a way which was obviously well practised to avoid every chair in the diner, but still cursed when she felt the cups beginning to slide over the trays. Ori made a move to get up, but Dwalin quickly stood and strode over to assist her, taking a tray with a gruff “Mmh,” when she thanked him.

It was with pain-staking slowness that the girl passed around the teas, careful to give the one with lemon in to Dori. The men sat in awkward silence, one or two thanking her quietly or clearing their throats or shifting impatiently. She placed a jug of milk and handful of sugar sachets on each table, being careful to lean over Fili as she did so, and blew a small bubble.

“Your breakfasts will be done shortly.” There was a note of disappointment in her voice that she hadn’t managed to overhear anything. “Can I get you gentlemen anything else?”

“No thank you, dear,” Balin smiled kindly up at her. She nodded and left, glancing back over her shoulder.

“Now,” Thorin growled, lowering his voice so that everyone had to lean closer. He looked around him, as though to spot any potential listeners. Finding none, he continued: “As we said last night, Bifur managed to—” He cut off abruptly as the door to the café was thrown open, and a small man stood there, panting.

“Well spank m’legs and call me mother, you’re back!” Nori cried.

Bilbo was doubled over as he leant on the door, hair dishevelled and breathing harsh and heavy. He tried to speak through panting but could only muster a few incoherent sounds: “I thou-uh I migh- ve- mi- u!”

“Come here, lad, sit down,” Oin cheered, rising to clap Bilbo on the shoulder and steer him to a seat with Bifur, Bofur and Bombur. “What were you saying? You changed your mind then? What about work?”

Bilbo nodded wildly, sinking into a chair and clutching his chest as he took deep breaths. “I thought I m-might’ve missed you all. C-called in sick.” He held up the black lever-arch file he had been presented with the night before. “I-I signed it,” he gasped, passing it to Balin.

Thorin’s eyes were set as though in stone, scrutinising Bilbo, while Gandalf knowingly smiled beside him and sipped his milky tea. As Balin flicked to the back of the folder, eyes sparkling, Fili laughed and grinned like a lion. “I knew you’d come back!” He leant towards his brother, holding out his hand. “Cough up.” Kili grimaced and pressed a crisp twenty pound note into it.

“How’d you find us?” Dori asked, poking at his piece of lemon with a spoon.

Bilbo coughed and held his chest, but smiled. “I’d say I was tracking you, but where else would a group of men be on a weekday morning other than a greasy spoon?”

Oin boomed out a laugh. “We’ll make a burglar of you yet, boy!”

“All seems to be in order,” Balin nodded. He reached into the leather briefcase at his feet and pulled out a portable laminating machine. “Well, can’t be too careful,” he shrugged in response to Bilbo’s inquiring stare.

“Are you sure you’re back?” came Thorin’s deep voice, “or are you going to desert us at a moment that suits you?”

Bilbo caught his breath gradually and stared up at Thorin. “Well I’m sure that contract says if I do the company of Thorin Oakenshield can castrate me or something, somewhere in the small print. So no. I won’t.”

Gloin tilted his head. “Probably should’ve put that in, that’s a good line.”

“Lucky mister Baggins got here when he did, so now he can hear the plan too,” Ori pondered.

Thorin and Dwalin exchanged a stern glance, but Bilbo was too preoccupied to notice. “Plan? What plan?”

“Well you can hardly rob a bank without a plan now, can you, Bilbo Baggins?” Gandalf chortled, absently removing his pipe from his pocket, noticing the ‘No Smoking’ sign, clearing his throat and putting it away.

“So,” Thorin began impatiently, before Bilbo could respond, “we shall discuss it now, if there are no more interruptions.” He took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and started: “As we said last night, Bifur managed to get important security information about the bank which I have already divulged. As it turns out, Erebor has an important emergency feature which we can use to our advantage. We need a member of staff to do this, and this is where Bofur comes in.”

“Aye, I have a meeting for an interview today at the LMBC,” Bofur nodded, “nothin’ fancy, just a lowly worker, but it should be good enough to get me a key card and the like to be able to get to the vault and safety deposit boxes.”

“Bofur will study the vault and its CCTV and laser system carefully. There has to be a blind spot in the vault. Then, on the night we choose to do this, he will lock himself in the vault and hide,” Thorin continued. “We then cut out the power in the entire bank. Even if it’s just a burst of electricity, the system has to completely reset, giving us a seven minute window with no CCTV or lasers.

This is where the emergency measure comes in handy. Just in case of electrical storms and such things, all the vaults are opened if the power is shorted. We then just need an authorised member of staff – namely Bofur – to open the door to the area where the vaults are held, and let us in through a fire escape which leads into the alley beside the bank. Then Erebor is ours for the taking. The men I take in there with me will get what they can and run, no messing about, while the burglar, here-” He motioned to Bilbo without looking at him “-gets the Arkenstone from the safety deposit box. We meet at a pre-arranged location, lie low for a while, and then hopefully take a very long holiday.”

He looked around at every pair of eyes, wide and stunned in silence. He drew in a deep breath, and murmured, “Whatever we get out of that bank, we split between the fourteen of us, since Gandalf had expressed no desire for any of it. You all understand I can’t guarantee the amount…”

“Aye,” Dwalin nodded, squeezing Thorin’s shoulders, “but we’re here ‘cause we’re loyal tae you, lad. Although the money is a sweetener-” A few men raised their polystyrene cups in agreement “-but we’re with you all the way.”

“I’m sorry for the wait,” bustled the waitress as she returned with two plates laden with food balanced on each arm, making the men jump again as most had completely forgotten where they were. She served Fili and Kili first before placing the others in front of two men at a convenient distance, and disappeared again. When she came back she was carrying another four, followed by a sallow greasy-faced man in chef’s whites who carried the rest. His raised eyebrow was all that could suggest that he had never seen so many customers, but all he said was, “Vegetarian?”

“Over here,” replied Bofur, pointing to his brother who had turned glassy-eyed long ago. “Bifur, wake up, it’s breakfast,” he said quietly, elbowing his brother in the chest, and adding to the waitress, “On second thoughts, could we get another full English? We’ve had another join us.” He put his arm around Bilbo and beamed.

“You hear that, Adam, better get another going. Could I get you a fresh tea?” she asked Gandalf as the chef sulked back into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

“Just the pot, if you have it,” Gandalf replied, nodding. “Thank you.”

The men tucked into their breakfasts, and Bilbo could see their table manners did not improve even when they were out in public. Bombur was so excited he gobbled it down like a pig at a trough, and looked over everyone else’s plates for seconds. They slapped and slurped and cheered when they found their fried eggs were runny, which apparently even elicited incredulous glances from the two overall-ed men in the corner.

Thorin, however, did not eat. He stared hard at Bilbo over entwined hands, surveying him. “You seem confused, Mr. Baggins,” he remarked, “care to share what’s on your mind?”

“I see a few issues,” Bilbo confessed slowly.

“Yes?”

“Well… what about that blood-thirsty security firm with the tasers and dogs?”

Thorin looked down at the table and cleared his throat before answering. “Someone will need to make a distraction,” he admitted, “but we haven’t quite decided how that will happen yet.”

“And if we get caught?”

Thorin stared intensely at Bilbo. “What do you want me to say, Baggins? It’s prison.”

“You can’t say that, Kili’s too pretty to go to prison,” Gloin guffawed through a mouthful of egg and bacon.

“Aye, he wouldnae sleep a wink,” Dwalin smirked.

“Hey!” Kili protested, but Fili added, “It’s almost a compliment,” and he resorted to sulking, stabbing his fork into a Cumberland sausage, instead.

Not bothering to comment on how immature they were being in such serious circumstances, Bilbo continued with, “And how exactly do I get an Arkenstone from a safety deposit box if I haven’t got a key?”

Thorin opened his mouth to speak, but Gandalf interrupted with, “I can provide the answer to that.” From the inside of his suit jacket, he pulled out a small, very plain-looking key. “This is the key to Smaug’s safety deposit box. I don’t know which it is, nor do I know where, but this is it, and this I give to you.” He handed it over to Thorin, who turned it over in his hand.

Humbled for what Bilbo believed to be the first time, he looked up at Gandalf as though seeing him for the first time. “How did you get this?”

“Well, people can come and go in the LMBC, can they not? And the owner of it can be so precious of his hoard that he will hold the key at all times, can he not? And said owner can accidentally bump into a foolish old man not looking where he’s going, drop his key, and have the old man pick it up for him, apologising profusely, can he not? And then, by some happy happenstance, the old man could have been holding a small mould in which he imprinted the key, and left the bank on his merry way. Oh, thank you, dear,” he purred up to the waitress as she planted a pot of tea in front of Gandalf, and moved over to place Bilbo’s breakfast in front of him.

Thorin stared down at the little piece of cut metal like a new-born child. “Thank you, Gandalf,” Thorin murmured, carefully pocketing the key. “Now we know it is possible. Now we know we can break into the unbreakable bank, disgrace Smaug, and regain the honour of my family. The line of Durin. I could never tell you how much I appreciate all of you sitting around me now for my cause, but know this; you will all be rewarded for your bravery.” What looked like the shadow of a small smile played around Thorin’s mouth. “Now eat up, I have jobs for every one of you today, not just Bofur. You’ll be stalking, hiding, getting all the information you can on Smaug, his employees, the bank, everything. We need to know as much as we can.”

“Hey, come on, Thorin,” Fili called out cheerfully, munching a piece of toast, “it’s just a bank heist. How hard can it be?”


	4. Gnomes & Cock-Ups

“Gloin?”

“Mmrh?”

“I’m bored. Can we go yet?”

Gloin rustled his newspaper, turning the page with deliberate loudness. “No, Oin. We’ve got a job to do.”

Oin sighed and slumped against the window on his side of the car, staring out wistfully.

The tatty sky-blue Ford Angliya sat silently on curb opposite what Oin and Gloin had been told was Smaug’s house. It was an overcast day, the thick rolling clouds grey and the air muggy, but the inside of the car was stuffy and overly hot, smelling of worn leather, cheap pine tree-shaped air freshener and stale flatulence.

Oin sighed again, picking inside his ear absently with his little finger. “I’m still bored, Gloin.”

The red-haired brother sighed and reached into the open glove compartment for another toffee, though he hadn’t finished the one already in his mouth. “Aye, me too,” he muttered as his teeth stuck together. “But you remember what Thorin said. We stay here and keep an eye on Smaug’s comings and goings.”

Oin adjusted his hearing aid, turning back to his brother. “We do what now?”

Gloin grimaced. “We shut up and look out for bankers.”

 “Oh yeah. But how do we know when he gets home?”

“We don’t, that’s the point. That’s why we’re here. Thorin wants to know what Smaug does every day. Kinda… follow his movements and what not.” He turned another page in his newspaper to signal that the conversation was over.

Oin sighed again and looked back out of the window, over at Smaug’s house. “It’s quite a biggun, isn’t it?” he pondered aloud.

The entire neighbourhood was a straight road lined by huge houses with electric iron gates, guarded by cars which patrolled the driveways like sentinels. The lawns were manicured and the hedges trimmed; the houses were just as pristine. Smaug’s residence was bright white, with great oaken double doors and at least three storeys. The windows had balconies and the exterior was decorated with long, ornate pillars.

Gloin looked over to the house but quickly returned his attention to the paper, ruffling it uncomfortably. In his old car he couldn’t help feeling ragged and conspicuous. “Maybe he’s compensating for something,” Gloin replied gruffly. “If everything goes alright we’ll be living in houses like that, Oin.”

“Really? Personally I prefer Bilbo’s bungalow.” He shrugged and reached for the pair of binoculars on the dashboard. He pressed them up against the passenger’s window and peered through them into Smaug’s garden. “Gloin.”

“Mmh?”

Not hearing the half-hearted response, Oin repeated himself: “Hey, Gloin.”

“What?”

“There are gnomes in the garden.”

Gloin’s eyebrows knitted together. “Gnomes?”

“Mm.”

“What kind of gnomes?”

Oin looked back at him sardonically. “Garden gnomes, what d’you think?! I’m not talking tiny people on his lawn! He’s got garden gnomes.”

Gloin folded up his newspaper and threw it onto the back seat. “With the fishing rods and the like?”

“Aye.” Oin passed the binoculars to his brother and they both looked out at the small porcelain statues with their long white beards, rosy cheeks and red hats. Oin looked at Gloin and Gloin looked back.

“Well we are both bored,” reasoned the grey-haired of the two, shrugging. “We could put them to good use.”

“Hmm.” Gloin stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Think there’s a gap in the fence somewhere to get through?”

Oin tilted his head and shrugged. “There will be soon.”

***

“Oh, I do hate driving around London,” Dori complained under his breath as he struggled to pull out of a side road in Wembley onto the A4005. “I do wish I could just go back home now.” The little dark green Mini, just as old as the driver, shuddered and puffed smoke out of its exhaust as it crawled out onto the road.

“Come on, old girl,” Nori murmured, patting the dashboard affectionately from the passenger seat. “We all know you can do it.”

“Just put your foot down, Dori,” came a small voice from behind him, “we can take these road hogs.” Ori, sitting in the middle of the back seats, leant forwards to poke him head in between the driver’s and passenger’s.

Dori gritted his teeth, turning out onto the road. “When you can drive then you can tell _yourself_ to put your foot down, but you’ll be telling me nothing of the sort, young man.”

Ori opened his mouth to speak again but Nori covered it with his hand. “Dori, take a right here. Keep going up Ealing Road,” he instructed, peering around outside the passenger window.

“Are you sure?”

Ori pushed his brother’s hand away defiantly. “It says on my maps app that we should take a left.”

Nori sighed. “Just trust me.”

“Alright, alright.” Dori acquiesced, pushing the indicator into a few groaning _tut_ s before turning to the right. “I don’t get it anyway,” he bumbled under his breath. “Why do _we_ have to get a getaway van?”

Raising an eyebrow, Nori glanced at him incredulously. “What do you think a getaway van is for, Dori?”

“Getting away!” piped up Ori animatedly.

“Well yes, yes, I know what it’s _for_! What I don’t know is why _we_ have to do it. What’s everyone else doing that’s so important?”

“Let’s see,” pondered Nori as they stopped at a set of traffic lights, “Oin and Gloin are watching Smaug’s neighbourhood, Fili and Kili are outside the LMBC, and—”

“Why do they get such an important job?” Ori complained. “We could do that with no problem.”

“Because Thorin thinks the bank is the last place Smaug will be. Apparently he’ll be working in some swanky corporate office, not visiting the common people, so then they won’t see him and then they can’t get into any trouble. That’s why Bilbo is with them as well. Thorin wants to keep them all out of his hair.”

“How do you – damn and blast it!” Dori cursed as the car stalled after he had pushed the accelerator a little too excitedly at the green light. “How do you know all that?”

Nori’s reply was patient. “It’s easy if you just observe. Now, as I was saying, Bofur is doing an interview in the LMBC, Bifur is doing more computer-y things with Bombur looking after him, and Thorin is with Dwalin and Balin doing… well, whatever they do.” He pointed out of the passenger window to the used car dealership they had been looking for. “See, I told you to take a right.”

“Good form,” Dori nodded, carefully driving further up the road and taking a left. He turned into a quiet alley behind a restaurant near the dealership and slowly turned off the ignition.

Nori removed his seatbelt and turned to face his two brothers. “Now, remember what we have to do. Don’t give any more information than we have to. We just want a van for some furniture removal. And no real names, we don’t want to be traceable. Got it? Just let me do the talking.” He grinned. “Ready?”

Ori and Dori nodded hesitantly. “Ready.” They each left their respective doors and Dori locked the car, unlocked it, and locked it again just to make sure.

“Wait, wait,” Dori blurted out as they were walking down the road to the dealership, grabbing Nori’s sleeve, “what do we say our names are if we can’t give our real ones?”

Nori played uncomfortably with his fingerless gloves and scratched the back of his head. “Uh… Tom, Dick and Harry.”

A puzzled look dawned over Ori’s face. “Like Harry Potter?”

“What? No! Since when was Hermione Granger ever a Tom or a Dick?”

“Then who’re Tom, Dick and Harry?”

“They’re the names of the tunnels in The Great Escape,” Dori explained, turning to watch his brother’s face.

“Oh,” Ori shrugged. “Never seen it.”

Nori shook his head as they stepped into the dealership full of second hand cars. “Kids these days.”

They had been nonchalantly browsing for barely thirty seconds when a rotund figure swaggered over to them in a worn suit and greasy, slicked-back hair. “Hello sirs,” came the dulcet tones of what could only be a salesman, dripping like treacle from a spoon, “may I help you today?”

 _Here goes nothing_ , Nori pondered. “Yeah, actually. We – me and my brothers – need a van.”

“Oh yes?” the salesman simpered in a bad imitation of received pronunciation. “In that case I’d only be too happy to oblige. My name’s Trev.” He held out a podgy hand.

Nori noticed he hitched up his sleeve just a little as though to deliberately flash his Rolex, though he could tell instantly that it was a fake. He took the salesman’s hand anyway. He didn’t know if it was Trev’s hand or his own which was clammy. “I’m Tom,” Nori replied calmly, hurriedly letting go, “and these are my brothers Dick” – he motioned to Dori – “and Harry.” Ori waved.

Trev laughed. “Parents were a fan of a certain Christmas classic, eh?” When neither of the three men replied, choosing instead to remain in an awkward silence with their hands jammed in their pockets, Trev cleared his throat. “Well if you’d like to come with me, we keep all our vans over this way.”

He turned and strode away from them, and they reluctantly followed, Nori at Trev’s side.  

“So, what’s it you’re lookin’ for? Anythin’ in particular?”

Nori was feeling more and more like a rabbit caught in a bear trap. “Just… just something big enough for the three of us. And with room at the back.”

“Yeah!” called out Ori behind them, “because there’s a lot of us to fit—”

“A lot of furniture. A lot of furniture to fit in,” Nori corrected quickly. “We’re moving, y’see.”

“Ah,” the salesman replied airily, though Nori could hear the note of suspicion in his voice. “Well, here’s our range of vans. If it’s space y’want then I’d recommend a Ford Transit V347.” He patted the bonnet of a tarnished metal monstrosity. “Diesel, everythin’ working ship-shape, only thirty-seven thousand on the clock.” He absently rubbed a scuff with his jacket sleeve before realising it was a dent and leaning on it to cover it up. “These babies are used for ambulances, so you know there’s plenty room for your uh… furniture.”

Nori nodded, but before he could reply Dori cut in: “How many cylinders does it have? Is it quick?”

Trev scrutinised Dori for a second before answering. “Four cylinders. Front wheel drive and eighty-five break horse power.”

“Ah, that’s not so bad.”

“Need to move things quickly, do you?” Trev smirked.

“Super quick!” Ori added, peering into the driver’s window.

“Why’s that, Harry?”

Dori shrugged. “Oh, you know, everyone’s got other places to go, people to see.”

Trev’s brow furrowed.

Nori’s only coherent thought was, _Shit._

“Wait, I thought you were Dick,” Trev wondered aloud, his tone almost accusing.

Dori froze, mouth floundering like a fish flopping out of water. “Well, yes—that is to say I am, of course, and I uh—”

“You troglodyte, Dori! You’ve ruined it all now!” cried the youngest man, playing with a loose thread on his jumper and agitatedly moving away from the salesman.

“Harry, we said no names!”

“I-I uh didn’t mean to! Sorry, Nori!”

“For crying out loud, Ori!”

They all looked at Trev. Then at each other.

“Run,” said Nori.

***

Bofur soon realised everything in the LMBC was harsh. The angles of interior rooms were harsh, the lights were all a single shade of harsh no matter where he went, and above all the employees already working there were harsh. Ushered into his interview, he felt like a criminal awaiting an imminent death sentence from a jury: he found himself in the middle of a square room, alone, on a chair, with four people staring at him from behind a row of tables whose faces certainly matched the harshness of the prestigious bank; their eyes were set under manicured eyebrows or behind glasses, their mouths hard lines of thin lips, their nostrils flared.

Bofur could feel a bead of nervous sweat steadily accumulate on his brow under the brutality of their intense gazes and tried to straighten his back to match theirs in an attempt at solidarity.

 _For Thorin,_ he reminded himself, _for Thorin. Drop the accent, speak clearly, make a good first impression. For Thorin._

“So,” came the cutting voice of the woman in the middle of the table. Her fountain pen was poised above a leather-bound notepad, ready to ferociously scribble. “Mr. Bofur, is it?”

Bofur considered nodding, but thought against it. He took a deep breath and found his voice. “Yes.”

She scribbled. “It says on your CV, Mr. Bofur, that you have worked in numerous banking conditions, even as a manager in one particular chain.”

 _Bifur you are a god send._ “That’s right, yes.”

“Why did you choose to enter banking?”

 _This is one I’ve practised answering with Balin,_ Bofur reasoned to himself, _I can do this._ “Well, see, it’s obvious that banking is a fast paced and competitive environment,” he recited. “It’s always changing. Because of that I think I’d be the ideal candidate, since I have the flexibility to cope with change, and I have the creativity to exploit new niches that develop in the market.”

“And what can this do for us?”

He smiled, feeling the nerves leaving him somewhat. “Because of this I can appreciate the benefits that new technology can bring, so I think I’d be a great asset for the LMBC in its environment of change and growth.”

If Bofur wasn’t mistaken he could have sworn to see a flicker of interest cross her face. It didn’t last long, however. “Customer service is very important to us here. Tell us about an experience in which you have had to use tact.”

 _Well, this was unexpected. Not practised this one._ “Well, of course, tact and diplomacy are important qualities in banking. After all, the customer is almost always right, and—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bofur, ‘ _almost_ always’?”

“Well… Yeah there are uh…” He cleared his throat. “Yes, there are certain times when a customer… A time of tact, you want? Uh…” He desperately scoured his mind for a recent example. _Bilbo, did I say anything at all tactful to Bilbo? Let’s see, I remember something about ballistic trauma and something or other about looking into the eyes of death. No, I definitely can’t tell them that! Shite!_

“Mr. Bofur,” came the raspy voice of the oldest man on his jury. “We are waiting for an answer.”

Suddenly, Bofur was feeling light-headed. “In my last job at a bank, I remember a certain customer I had to handle. He was a man who was sure he was right and that I was stopping him from taking out the loan he wanted. I diplomatically explained why he couldn’t have a loan, with my deepest apologies, and managed to do so without provoking them to move their account elsewhere.” _Lying should be made an art form._

Seemingly believing that their question was answered adequately enough, the interviewers looked disapproving but set to writing notes, two conferring in hushed tones.

He was about to breathe out a sigh of relief; that’s when he saw them.

In the large window behind the four interviewers, through which Bofur could see the dreary sky and the promise of rain, a garden gnome suddenly appeared on the window sill. It was smiling at him. Then another appeared on the other side of the sill. They began walking towards each other, and Bofur found himself utterly mesmerised.

_What the fuck?!_

“Mr. Bofur,” interjected a sharp voice, “are you listening?”

“No, I— I’m sorry! Could y’repeat the question, please?” he blurted, trying to rip his sight away from the gnomes scurrying around outside.

Clearly seeing that his attention was divided, the woman who appeared to be the main interviewer – the judge – looked over her shoulder, but the gnomes – _no, the people with the gnomes, you idiot!_ – ducked down. When she turned back, looking a lot more exasperated, her tone was stern.

“If there is something more interesting outside than in here by all means please leave, Mr. Bofur. We are very busy people.”

Suddenly there were four gnomes on the sill and they were all animatedly kissing. He could feel the sweat accumulating back on his brow, tenfold, and felt the pit of dread swirling in the pit of his stomach.

“No, no! Not at all. This position is very important to me because, uh—” The gnomes had begun exploring a menagerie of dry humping positions. “I’ve always wanted to be a wan— banker! I’ve always wanted to be a banker at the LMBC because I uh… I believe that I have a lot of skills to offer the job to push the company forward and… follow in my father’s footsteps and…” He trailed off, suddenly unable to formulate an adequate lie with a number of garden gnomes going at it so violently they were beginning to crack right outside the window. “I just, I’ve always gnome— _known,_ I’ve always known it was the job for me,” he concluded.

The jury looked at each other. Then at Bofur. Then at each other.

Oin and Gloin peered up into the room over the window sill.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Bofur,” the judge uttered curtly, removing her glasses in a way which meant nothing but finality. “You may go now.”

***

“Want a Skittle?”

“Only if it’s a red or purple one.”

“Get stuffed,” Kili muttered, tipping the packet up at his lips and pouring some in his mouth. “You can have a green or yellow.”

“Not sure I want one now you’ve slobbered on them.”

“Your loss.”

Fili rolled his eyes and glanced up from the newspaper which was folded on the steering wheel in front of him to the rear view mirror of his Smart car. He angled his head to check that the green taxi containing a bored but financially benefiting driver and a certain Baggins was still there.

“I feel sorry for Bilbo,” he thought aloud to his dark-haired counterpart. “After all, why would Uncle Thorin tell him to come with us when he knows full well I only have a car with two seats?”

“To annoy him? To make him pay the massive taxi fare? Anyway, it’s _our_ car.”

Fili returned his attention to the crossword in front of him, his brow furrowing as he tried to work the meaning of five across, ‘Sign with precious stone in one (6)’. “It’s _our_ car when you can drive it.”

“I can!” Kili protested, “I just haven’t passed my test.”

“Three times you’ve taken that test!” Fili reminded him, rolling his eyes. “You nearly wrote off the car the second time around.”

“I’m telling you, man, it was the horse’s fault.”

“Either way, it’s my car. Speaking of, get your feet off the dashboard.”

Kili sighed exasperatedly but did so. “You’re getting as boring as Uncle Thorin. Can I at least find something decent on the radio?”

“As long as it’s not Radio Playboy After Dark again.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Kili rebuked, clucking his tongue. “I wouldn’t listen to that. It’s not after dark yet.” He flicked through the radio stations disinterestedly, eventually settling on Capital and picking bits of Skittle out of his teeth. “It’s Gemini, by the way.”

Fili hesitated. “What? What is?”

“Five across, Gemini.”

“You haven’t even looked, you can’t know that,” Fili replied, shaking his head disbelievingly.

“I can. You’ve been muttering it over and over again for the past few minutes.”

“I have not, and it’s not the answer,” Fili muttered, glancing over the crossword. He sucked his lip again. “How is it Gemini?”

“Gem. In. I,” Kili replied slowly. “Precious stone is the gem, and one is I to posh people, right? And sign as in star sign – Gemini.”

A smile grew across Fili’s face and he reached over to affectionately ruffle

Kili’s hair. “And here’s me thinking there was no hope for you. We’ll make a genius out of you yet!”

Kili smirked and batted his brother’s hand away. “Yeah yeah, you’ve been trying to do that for years and it’s not worked so far.” He wedged his feet back up on the dashboard.

“Well maybe if you did become a genius you’d start acting more maturely and then Thorin would stop paying the driving instructor to fail you,” the fairer of the two commented airily, pencilling the word ‘Gemini’ in capital letters in the crossword.

“What?! He does?! Why would he do that?”

“For the safety of yourself and the rest of mankind, I’d imagine.” He glanced out of the windscreen, towards the bank, and froze. “Kili, look! Is that Smaug?”

Still clearly disgruntled, but now interested, Kili looked in the direction of his brother’s intense gaze.

The man exiting the bank, flanked on every side by four burly men with thick necks, bald heads and tailored suits, was tall and scrawny, a dark coat draped around him with its collar turned up against the chill breeze. From what the brothers could see from the position they occupied on the road across from the LMBC, the man had thick dark hair which fell about in curls, quick dark eyes under heavy-set brows and his hands shoved defiantly in his coat pocket.

 “It must be, no one but a banker could look such a bell end,” Kili whispered as though afraid Smaug may hear him, taking his feet off the dashboard and leaning forward for a better look.

As they watched, one of Smaug’s body guards opened the back door of a black BMW six series Sedan with blacked out windows parked outside the bank and the corporate millionaire disappeared inside. The bodyguard then slid into the driver’s seat while the other three got into an identical car parked behind Smaug’s.

“Fili, Fili quickly, go,” Kili hissed, nudging his brother as the two Sedans rumbled into life.

Fili turned the key in the ignition of the Smart car and discarded the newspaper on Kili’s lap. He looked in the rear view mirror and saw the taxi behind them splutter awake, ready to follow. “Alright, here we go,” he murmured, more to himself than his brother. He pulled out onto the busy road with two cars between him and the Sedans in the hope that he would not draw suspicion, but kept a close eye on them at all times. “Kili, put your seatbelt on.”

They followed the cars through the winding streets of London, mostly staying a good distance away, but every now and again weaving in and out of lanes when they feared they had lost sight of their targets. For a while Kili was adequately caught up in the espionage enough to be quiet, but he soon realised there would be no high speed or gun fights, so he resorted to being bored and annoying.

“Fili… Fili,” he urged after around twenty minutes of tailing Smaug through the packed streets of inner London, “Fili, I need to pee.”

“You’ll have to hold it,” Fili replied patiently, taking a sharp turn and hoping that the taxi driver and Bilbo would be able to keep up.

“But Fili!”

“Just do something to make yourself useful.”

Kili sighed and shrugged sulkily. Then he had an idea. “I’ll tell everyone that we’ve got sight of him. Smaug, that is,” Kili smiled airily. He reached to Fili’s jeans and slipped his hand into the pocket, retrieving his brother’s phone. He fell quiet as he tapped at the screen. A few moments passed. Then he began tapping some more before placing the phone on the dashboard.

As Fili crawled along the road, trying to catch sight of Smaug’s car again, he took a sidelong glance at his brother. His brow furrowed. “I don’t like that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“ _That_ look.”

“What look? It’s just my face.”

Fili flicked the indicator irritably, turning a corner to follow the Sedans, now just one car in between them. “No, it’s your smug self-satisfied look when you’ve done something really annoying which you think is funny.”

“I just sent everyone a text, that’s all.”

Taking a deep breath, Fili gripped the wheel a little tighter and pursed his lips. “And what did this text say?”

“Oh, just the usual.” Kili retrieved Fili’s phone and navigated to the sent messages. He melodramatically cleared his throat before beginning: “Just thought I should let you know, Kili and I have sight of Smaug and we’re trailing him now.”

Fili shrugged, deeming this an acceptable text. “That’s not so bad.” Then he considered for a moment. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

Kili smirked. “Can’t wait to see you tonight Gloin, my little snuggle bug. Ex-oh-ex-oh-ex-oh.”

“You sent that to everyone?!”

“I think I may have missed out… yeah, no I sent it to everyone, yeah. Then I sent another text to everyone but Gloin saying, ‘whoops, didn’t meant to send that to the whole group, sorry’.” Before Fili could respond, however, the phone was vibrating in Kili’s hand.

“Who is it?” Fili asked dejectedly, resigning himself to the worst.

“Uh Gloin. He says, ‘you and I need words, lad’.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Fili sighed, “at least it wasn’t Uncle Tho-”

Kili’s obnoxiously loud ringtone of The Caesars’ _Jerk It Out_ soon drowned Fili out. He glanced at his brother as he fumbled with his pocket, trying to get the phone out in time.

“Oh shit,” muttered Kili, “it’s Thorin.”

“Sweet retribution. Answer it then.”

Suddenly looking quite sour, Kili clicked the answering button on his phone and cautiously held it to his ear. “Hey, Tho—… I… wait, I… hey! I’m not a jumped-up little shit!”

Fili did his best to swallow back a laugh.

“No, no, I— Thorin it was a joke, I— No, I _do_ know the seriousness of the situation. No, don’t send me back to mam, I— Thorin, I’ll be good!” He slumped back in his seat, sulking. “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, Bilbo’s still with us. I uh…” He peered around his passenger seat, gazing out of the back window and trying to find the taxi with the Baggins in. “I think… Oh yeah there he is! Yeah, yeah we have sight of Smaug, we’re still following him. In fact I think he’s slowing down now, Uncle Thor— Thorin, sorry, Thorin! Yeah. Yeah, I’ll let you know what happens.”

Kili hung up and sank back into his seat, suddenly looking very small. “I think I’m in trouble,” he muttered.

“Me too,” Fili nodded. He watched the black Sedan turning off, and he cautiously followed it, now with no car to shield them from view. Then his stomach felt heavy. “Kili?”

“Yes, Fili?”

“How many cars were we following?”

“Erm, two. Why?”

“Because I can only count one in front of us.”

“What, but— shit. I’m not explaining this one to Thorin. It’s your turn to be in trouble.”

“No, it might be alright,” Fili replied, attempting to squint a view into the car. “It might be Smaug in there, not just his bouncers.”

“How did you lose a blacked-out Sedan, Fili? I thought you were meant to have inherited the brains.”

“Well you certainly didn’t. And maybe I was too worried about thinking about Gloin and his ‘words’ now he thinks I fancy him.”

Kili smirked as the car slowed to a halt just outside a car park of a high-rise building of corporate offices. They peered out of the window and watched the Sedan park close to the building. Behind the Smart car, Fili heard the taxi grumble and fall silent as the ignition was turned off. Fili leant forwards, knuckles white on the steering wheel in anticipation, but the three burly men stepped out of the car, laughing from their bellies.

Smaug was nowhere to be seen.

“Shit,” cursed Fili, “we lost him.”

“Congratulations, Captain Obvious.”

“You’re not helping.”

Kili shrugged and comfortingly rubbed his brother’s shoulder. “Look, it wasn’t your fault. And we still might be able to get away with this.” He pointed to the three men, who were swaggering towards the office building. “If we get in there we can spy on them. They’re Smaug’s bodyguards, they must have some important information on something which we can give Thorin. If we just eavesdrop we may be able to get something.”

Fili smiled wanly at his brother. “How do we do that? We’re hardly masters of disguise.”

“No,” agreed Kili. He peered between their seats to look out of the back window, straight into the taxi behind them and fixing his stare on Bilbo. “But he’s supposed to be.”


	5. Big Trouble in Little Southbank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My long-suffering better half has made a fanmix for this fic - listen to it here http://8tracks.com/marzipannu/smooth-criminal !  
> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos and commented!

_What am I doing? What the bloody hell am I doing?_

Bilbo trudged across the car park of the LMBC offices, tucking his shirt in agitatedly in an attempt to make himself look more presentable. He rubbed his hands together and played with his sleeves, trying to steel himself, but felt the first few drops of rain fall on his face and took it to be a bad omen.

He knew that soon he would regret the idea to sign that contract, he just knew it; and as Thorin Oakenshield’s two young nephews had exited their own car to smile into the taxi window – a taxi which had made his pockets considerably lighter – he recognised the sinking feeling very well as a mix of panic and regret.

“‘You should come along on this adventure’, they said,” he muttered to himself, “‘it’ll be fun’, they said. ‘Go with Fili and Kili’, they said. ‘Just go into the LMBC offices and spy on those men that went in’, they said. ‘It’ll be easy’, they said.”

Glancing over his shoulder to make sure Fili and Kili were still waiting in their car, he strode towards the foyer of the offices in an attempt to hide his shaking legs, finding himself in a cloud of smoke hanging around the cars parked in front of the building. Bilbo glanced at the perpetrators; a man and woman, clearly employees in the offices from their immaculate suits and hair, both with a cigarette in hand. Thinking he could overhear something useful, Bilbo stopped behind a nearby car and, with an exasperated sigh, knelt down to begin pretending to tie his shoes.

“Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean,” the woman nodded. Bilbo noticed her voice was cool; as he glanced up he saw her lips painted with red. “But mothers-in-law aren’t always that bad, they get better.” As she inhaled her cigarette, her male counterpart made a disbelieving noise, threw his cigarette on the ground, stubbed it out and reached inside his jacket pocket. “You’re having another fag?”

“I think I need another one to make it through today,” he replied. His voice was raspy, like he had been smoking for many years. Bilbo leant around the car to get a better look – he was tall but plump, and his hair was thinning all over. “Jackie, the supervisor up in my department. She wants this report that she only gave me last week.” He lit his cigarette with a cheap plastic lighter. “She won’t get off my back for it.”

“Jackie? Is that Jacqueline Tucker?”

“Mm.”

“Even in my department they say she acts like something crawled up her arse and died. I feel sorry for you.”

“She was meant to be going on a date tonight, so you’d think she would be a bit happier. Personally I think she’s been stood up.” He smiled in self-satisfaction before peering around the car they were standing next to, noticing that Bilbo had been tying his shoelaces for an inordinately long amount of time. “Can we help you, mate?” he asked curtly.

“Oh, no, no. Not at all, sorry,” Bilbo blurted as he stood up and hastily moved away, trying to hide his face as best as he could. “Sorry, sorry.”

He heard them mutter something about a ‘weirdo’ just before he was out of earshot, but he didn’t really care. _Maybe I can make a better burglar than I thought._

The automatic glass doors glided open for him as he approached the clinically-white foyer. Cream sofas were pushed up against white walls, white coffee tables in front of them with a collection of banking magazines and copies of _The Financial Times._ Tiny fake flowers stood in huge white vases on either side of the doors, and tiny doppelgangers of these rested in the centre of each coffee table. Behind the white welcoming desk sat a youthful woman in a purple dress, red hair pinned back in a soft bun. A golden pen rested on her bust, suspended on a chain around her neck.

“Hello,” the women smiled at Bilbo as he entered the foyer. She looked him up at down, somewhat disdainfully. “May I be of some assistance?”

“Yes, hello,” Bilbo replied, a little too quickly. He took a breath to calm himself and forced his face into a smile. “I’m here to see Miss Tucker. Uh, Jacqueline Tucker.”

The woman put on a pair of thin glasses and looked down, consulting what Bilbo guessed was an appointment book. “And what is it concerning?”

Bilbo steeled himself, careful not to say more than he had to. “I’m afraid that’s… confidential.”

She glanced up at him. “Do you have an appointment?”

Bilbo shook his head. “She said it would be fine with you if I went straight up to see her.”

The woman returned her attention to his face, removing her glasses and pursing her lips. She looked almost sympathetic. “I am very sorry,” she purred, “but I cannot allow you to see her. Please make an appointment next time and have a nice day.”

 _Time for the big guns._ “I’m taking her out tonight. On a date. I’ve come to pick her up. I suppose she just forgot to tell you.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the woman. She looked him up and down again, this time with a raised eyebrow. “Mr. Barrow then, I suppose? Well she did say you were—… Yes, I remember her mentioning something about that, I beg your pardon. I’ll just call her and let her know you’re here.”

“No, no, please don’t!” Bilbo protested hurriedly, taking a step forwards. “I mean uh I’d rather just go up and uh… surprise her. If that’s alright with you, of course.”

The woman’s lips pursed for a moment as she considered his proposal. Bilbo waited with bated breath. “Oh, alright, just this once Mr. Barrow. If you go through the doors to the left over there” – she leant forwards on the desk and pointed – “then you’ll get to the cafeteria. The lift is just past it. Her office is on the tenth floor, then the secretary up there will be able to direct you to her office.”

“Thank you for all your help.” Bilbo smiled what he hoped was a charming smile. Then he turned on heel and strode through the double doors, wondering what he was feeling unconfident about in the first place.

Then it hit him – “I’m not _actually_ taking Jacqueline Tucker out,” he murmured to himself. “I’m trying to find those three large and very strong-looking men.” He cupped his hands over his mouth, wondering why he had been so stupid. _I could have just gone straight back out and told Milli and Vanilli they wouldn’t let me in. You stupid man, Bilbo Baggins._ He rubbed his eyes restlessly and took in a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ll have a look around, to make it seem convincing, but I probably won’t even find them anyw—”

“Again?!” roared the deep boom of a man’s voice from the cafeteria, just down the hall. “Mutton again?! What’re you paid for? It was mutton yesterday too!”

Bilbo had never understood an author’s description of a sinking feeling as much as he did in that moment. With numb legs he slowly and quietly stepped forwards, flattening himself against the wall and moving to the cafeteria door. _It’s probably not them. I’ll just check, at least. Just to make sure it’s not._

Upon peeping around the doorway, however, he saw the light gleaming off three bald heads as they lined up in front of a food bar, supervised by a wizened old woman in a white hat who reminded Bilbo of his secondary school dinner lady. Their suits were stretched slightly across their backs in a way that suggested they were tailored, but they had adopted quite a lot of weight – _or muscle –_ recently.

“If you don’t like it, you can buy your own food,” the server behind the canteen bar replied impatiently. “I’m on a limited budget from Smaug, you know. I need to use meat which is cheaper than steak every now and again.”

“There ‘asn’t been a steak in ‘ere for ages, Doris,” complained one of the bodyguards with a more gentle voice. “It’s always mutton! We’re sick of mutton.”

“William, I know your father, don’t you be complaining about my food, y’hear. Now you three eat what you’re given, I’ve got better things to be doing.” She began dolloping food onto their plates while they grumbled under their breaths.

Knowing he would only have a few moments left, Bilbo peered around quickly for a vantage point. The cafeteria was set out in rows of white tables with matching plastic chairs. Bilbo counted five rows, each with three tables. He chose to be inconspicuous and to just hear what he could; the room was empty but someone who had been in before had left a copy of _The Sun_ on a nearby table. He walked inside the cafeteria quietly so not to draw attention to himself, swiped the paper from the table and situated himself in the far corner, opening it and watching the three men over the top.

They sat on the opposite side of the room to Bilbo, so he had to lean forwards slightly to listen. He heard their chairs creak as they sat, and the subsequent slapping of mutton in their mouths.

It was only once they had become comfortable and begun to eat that they decided to talk. “So Bert, ‘ow’s the wife?” asked the beefy man which the service woman had identified as William as he carefully arranged the strips of mutton in between two pieces of bread.

Bilbo noticed Bert seemed to have the least neck of the three, with seemingly just a head on a pair of shoulders. “Awright, yeah,” he replied, in what Bilbo was sure was a stunning display of eloquence for the bodyguard.

“And ‘ow about your missus, Tom?”

“Yeah, not bad,” Tom shrugged, picking meat from between his teeth.

“’Ere, did you catch the game on Saturday?”

“Mmnh!” William celebrated enthusiastically through a mouthful of sandwich. “Com’ ron rou reds!”

Tom scowled. “Man U fouled at least twice,” he muttered. “Everton’ll eat you for breakfast next time.”

“Sorry, what wassat, Tom? I couldn’ hear you over the sound of the cheering crowd, oh yeah!”

Bilbo glowered at the mundane conversation, guessing that he wasn’t about to hear anything at all worthwhile. _Perhaps I should just text Fili and Kili and tell them it’s useless._

“I didn’t see it,” Bert muttered moodily, stabbing a potato with his fork. “I was working during the match.”

“Tha’s shit, mate.”

“Yeah. But I got to see Smaug’s safety deposit box,” he grinned smugly.

The hair on the back of Bilbo’s neck stood up on end. He leant in, suddenly desperate to hear more.

He needn’t have done, however, because of course the reply was just as mundane: “Is that an euphemism?” William guffawed, and Tom followed suit.

“No!” Bert exclaimed disgustedly. “But you two ain’t never seen it, so I’ve got one up one you.”

“Did you see what’s inside?”

“Nah, he didn’t open it. Have you heard the rumours about what’s in there though?”

Tom and William shook their heads. “Never been stupid enough to ask,” William added.

“See, keep it quiet...” Bert looked around nervously, his eyes lingering on Bilbo for a moment, before leaning in and whispering, “But I heard there’s a massive diamond in there.”

Tom’s mouth dropped open, making him look even more gormless. “How’d you know?” he hissed back.

Bilbo peered over the newspaper to look at them, as though it would help him hear better – just in time for Bert to look around and meet his eyes.

“Oi!” he bellowed. “What’d’you think you’re looking at?”

Bilbo felt something between the neck and knees which resembled being punched. “N-nothing,” he stammered, disappearing back behind the pages and hoping that they would forget about his existence. Obviously that would have been too much to ask; there was the shrill scraping sound of chairs being pushed back on linoleum floor and, the next thing Bilbo knew, the newspaper was being wrenched from his hand.

“Didn’ look like nothin’,” rebuked Bert, who was suddenly directly in front of Bilbo. Tom was closing in on his side – he was backed into a corner. “Looked like you were eavesdropping.”

“No, no, I wasn’t dropping any eaves! I-I mean—”

“I’ve never seen this one before, Bert. Have you, Tom?” At their blank faces, William snapped, “Who’re you, mate? Do you even work ‘ere?”

“Y-yes, I work up in the um— the er—”

“Yeah? Get on with it.”

Bilbo paled. “I er—”

“Bull shit! ’E’s been followin’ us and listenin’ in!” Tom roared. “’E must’ve been the one in that Smart car!”

“No, I—”

“P’raps, we should beat the truth out’ve ‘im!”

“Oh gosh no, please don’t do that, I—” Before he could finish his sentence he found himself being picked up by the shoulders by Bert before being roughly shoved into the table, face first. He could taste blood.

A shrill woman’s voice blared from seemingly somewhere in the distance. “What are you all—?!”

“Stay out of this, Doris,” William snarled from somewhere above Bilbo. His arms were forcefully pushed up his back and held there – he couldn’t move.

“I s’gest you start speakin’. Why’re you here?”

_I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to—_

“Just punch ‘im, Will, ‘urry up!”

_Please don’t let me die, please don’t let me die—_

“Oi, let him go,” ordered a familiar voice which, for the first time, Bilbo was glad to hear.

“Kili!” he shouted, muffled from his face being pressed into the plastic. “Kili, help!”

“That’s the general idea, numb nuts,” Kili replied in a quiet hiss.

“Get out’ve ‘ere, kid,” came Tom’s voice from above Bilbo. “This is none o’your business and you’ll just get yourself ‘urt.

“Let him go,” he defiantly repeated. “Or else.”

“Oh yeah?” William growled. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll send you back under the rock you came from.”

Bilbo fell limp, feeling like he could cry. _Thorin’s nephew is about to die. Thorin is going to blame me. If I’m not going to be torn apart now I’m going to be torn apart by Thorin._

William chuckled, a low rumble of a laugh. “Oh yeah?” Bilbo heard bones snap as he cracked his knuckles. “You and whose army?”

Suddenly, as though on cue, the corridor outside the cafeteria exploded with life; the thumps of running feet and the puffing of angry breaths.

“There he is!” cried Gloin’s voice. “Let’s get our burglar!”

Bilbo could barely see the figures running into the cafeteria from the angle his head was pressed down, but the repercussions were soon all too apparent: it must have only been a moment, but it appeared to last for hours. Dwalin and Bifur were the first to attack, launching themselves at Bert with ferocious intent. Thorin soon joined them, prising his hands from Bilbo; the three were threatened by a tirade of punches from the bodyguard, but they were quicker – they dodged and hit out as much as they could. Tom stepped forwards to help his companion, yelling a loud, low note, but was intercepted by Fili, Kili and Nori who punched him in the stomach, winding him. Gloin and Oin took on the remaining bodyguard, shouting incoherent war cries as they were punched and kicked and gave as good as they got. Ori stood in the corner, throwing cutlery at the bodyguards in a desperate attempt to help.

By the time Dori and Balin had pulled Bilbo off the table, the cafeteria was in uproar; tables had been upturned, chairs were being used to hit each other over the head and the three dinners were strewn across the floor. Barely anyone was unscathed, most with bloodied lips or places which would be black with bruises the next morning: Oin was sitting in a chair, holding his stomach and trying to recover his breath; Bert was draped over a table, groaning in pain, after a well-aimed jab with the back of a chair in the throat by Dwalin; Tom had made Ori his next victim and was striding towards him, but Fili cried out and grabbed the bouncer by the arm, punching him in the ribs, yelling at the youngest man to get out.

Bilbo was sure that the fight wasn’t going to stop, that they would continue beating each other until at least one person was out cold or worse. Then came the deep roar of a voice, slicing through the pandemonium and causing everyone to halt: “Enough!”

Bilbo started. Silence almost immediately reigned, save for Bifur struggling against Bofur and Dwalin to get back into a fight. Only when all had fallen quiet did Bilbo realise his tongue felt at least three sizes too big and there was a distinct nausea in the pit of his stomach. His limbs felt numb, as though he were about to pass out. He felt behind him for a seat and slumped in it, only then looking up at the figure which had instantly restored calm.

_Gandalf!_

His face was set, his mouth a hard line and his eyes cold. He seemed to show not even a sense of recognition to any of the men. His hand was by his chest, and he was displaying a police badge.

_Ah. That’s how he did it then._

“Now,” Gandalf grumbled commandingly, “what do we have here? When I was called here for a disturbance, I did not expect it to be Smaug’s own employees.”

Tom, Bert and William, sporting bloody gums, black eyes and ripped suits, stared around at the men disdainfully. “This one ‘ere,” he muttered, pointing at Bilbo, “‘e was listenin’ to our conversation. ‘E’s been followin’ us and ‘e doesn’ even work ‘ere, and—”

“I believe in that, good sir, you are wrong. See I know this man personally, and he works in the loans department here. And in saying this am I right in believing you initiated the fight?”

Bert shifted uncomfortably.

“Now, the way I see it, we can do this one of two ways.” Gandalf put his badge in his pocket and held up one finger. “One; I could arrest you _all_ for bodily harm, by which there will be statements, court hearings and a lot of paperwork for me and, since you have admitted in the presence of an officer to beginning an unnecessary brawl which a brewery would be ashamed of, all three of you will lose your jobs.” He held up a second finger. “Alternatively, there is option two; I let all of you go with a warning, and we say nothing more about it.”

The three bodyguards looked at each other and nodded. “Two,” they mumbled.

“Good. Now get out of my sight.”

They trundled out of the ruined cafeteria single-file, Bert casting a vicious glance at Bilbo as they did so. Only when they were sure the three were far away did Gandalf sigh and look to Bilbo, his gaze laced with disappointment. “What happened?”

Bilbo shook his head. “It all happened so fast I don’t even know… How did you all know I was in trouble?”

“Kili sent us all a text message,” Nori replied, wiping blood from his cut cheek, “saying you went into the LMBC offices after some of Smaug’s guys and hadn’t come out yet. Lucky we all _did_ come, really.”

Bilbo cast an appreciative look at Kili, but before he could speak Gandalf was ushering them out. “Come on, come on. We don’t want to be found here now, let’s go.”

As they left, Bilbo heard Doris cry out in horror at the sight of her cafeteria. “I will garrotte those boys!” she screamed.

Bilbo decided then that justice would be served.

Back out in the car park, Bilbo became aware of a strange tingling in his limbs as they regained feeling. He drew in a deep breath of fresh air, suddenly finding the watery and frankly poor excuse for a sun in London to be the warmest and most beautiful thing in the world. He stretched, assessing the extent of the damage he had received, but concluded that he would be fine.

“I find it disconcerting that you have a police badge,” Thorin muttered to Gandalf as they crossed the car park. “You look too much like a police officer.”

Gandalf shrugged. “I always carry it with me. You never know when it may come in handy.”

 “Thank you for getting help,” Bilbo smiled to Fili and Kili, speeding up to walk with them. “I thought I was a goner. Really, my life flashed before my eyes.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Yeah,” Kili grinned wolfishly. “Beats sitting about in the car playing Angry Birds.”

“That’s what you were doing while I was getting nearly pummelled?”

“Yeah. Then I beat Fili’s high score and he got all annoyed and concerned that you hadn’t come out yet.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “How did you get past the woman at reception?” he asked, flexing his arms and feeling tenderly where he was sure the bodyguards’ sausage-like fingers had pressed in hard enough to bruise.

“Oh, that?” Kili looked to his brother and they shared a grin. “Fili has a date now.”

Bilbo laughed and turned his head to reply, but a black motorbike, driven by a dark-clad figure, roared and snarled nearby, making Bilbo jump. He quickly shut his mouth and didn’t say anything else, fearing that he would be sick if he kept it open any longer.

When they were halfway across the car park, out of anyone’s earshot, Thorin suddenly halted and turned to the rest of the group. “How in the name of all that is good and righteous did you all manage to cock up so badly?” he growled. He turned to Oin and Gloin with gritted teeth: “Bofur told me about how he lost any chance of a job because of your little stunt with Smaug’s garden gnomes.”

“I only told him because he threatened to punch me in the throat,” Bofur added meekly, looking guilty.

Thorin ignored him and turned instead to Nori and Dori: “Apparently you two couldn’t negotiate your way out of a paper bag.” Then to Kili, Fili and Ori: “You three are far too young. I should have known.” And finally to Bilbo: “And you. I knew you’d just be a liability from the start.”

There was a dull chorus of “we’re sorry”, or “we didn’t mean to”, while Kili looked down and scuffed the tip of his boot on the floor.

“I’ve a good mind to send you two back to your mother,” he added to his nephews.

“Give us another chance, Thorin,” Fili murmured, in something between a question and a plea. He smiled wanly and put his arm around his brother’s shoulders. “We won’t disappoint you again.”

Thorin grunted, running his fingers through his short, dark hair. “And what were you doing, Gandalf? All I heard from you last I saw was that you had some business to attend to, and then you were gone.”

“A damn sight more than the rest of you, it seems,” Gandalf replied, but there was lightness and amusement in his voice. He smiled softly at Ori, who looked particularly crest-fallen at the berating. “I have obtained us an important meeting with some important people. So if you’d all like to follow me.” He pointed to a white motorcycle which was parked just outside the car park, behind Fili and Kili’s Smart car. “Then we shall see if we can fix any of what has been broken.”

***

Since Bilbo was lacking both a car and a taxi, and neither Dwalin nor Thori wanted him, he soon found himself inside Balin’s red Ford Capri. It was tatty and scuffed with the paint falling off, but inside it smelt distinctly like fresh doughnuts. Balin put the radio on so they weren’t forced to make small-talk, and in a manner of semi-comfortable silence and listening to Adele on Capital 1, they followed Dwalin’s huge Land Rover through London, with which they were led them to a large multi-storey car park at the bottom of Great Suffolk Street. They drove in single-file and lined up patiently outside the barriers, waiting to be let in.

“Yell if you see a spot, laddie,” Balin smiled, passing Bilbo the parking ticket and slowly driving through the car park behind Dwalin’s monster of a car.

They all split up in search of their own spaces, Balin squeezing his Capri into a miniscule space on the third floor. He patted the dashboard lovingly, crooning to the car, before clapping his hands together. “Right, off we go then! Keep hold of the ticket, there’s a good lad.”

“What were you and Dwalin doing?” Bilbo asked, once they had squeezed out of the car. “Today, that is.”

“We were with Thorin, watching Bifur do his technological doobie-whatsits. See, Dwalin and I have a few… qualms with this. Especially now with what’s happened today. We’re not sure it can work, so we were going over everything with Bifur and looking at the chances of this whole... event, if you will, going to plan.”

Bilbo shoved his hands in his pocket as they descended the stairs of the multi-story. “And?”

Balin smiled meekly.

“Then why? Why are you doing this?”

“Because my brother and me, we’re good friends of Thorin’s. We would never leave him in the lurch, especially not in something like this. If he gets locked up, we go with him. There isn’t enough loyalty in the world today.”

Bilbo considered this, but before he could reply Dwalin, who was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, spotted them. “Hello, ladies,” he grinned, lighting the cigarette in his mouth. He took a deep breath in, tilting his head back slightly to do so; Bilbo found himself mesmerised by the dim glow of the ceiling light moving across his bald head.

“Dwalin, go outside with that, it’s a horrible habit,” Balin scolded, ushering his brother out of the nearest door. Gandalf was already waiting outside with Thorin, his nephews, and Dori, Nori and Ori; the only ones to show any acknowledgement of their presence were Nori, Dori and Gandalf, since Thorin appeared to be deep in thinking about things which made him incredibly restless, and Fili, Kili and Ori were standing in a huddle around a phone.

“Glad you could join us,” Thorin murmured impatiently as they added themselves to the group. “Are you going to tell us where we’re going now, Gandalf?”

“All in good time, my dear Oakenshield, all in good time.”

Thorin exasperatedly took the cigarette and little plastic lighter offered to him by Dwalin with a quiet “thanks”. Balin looked disapproving but stayed silent.

“You’d best not beat my high score,” Fili muttered to Kili.

“I can’t help if I’m better than you at Fruit Ninja,” Kili smirked.

“You’re not, you just get lucky.”

“Like how I got lucky with that crossword earlier?”

“Hey look, they’re all here!” exclaimed Ori, pointing to the entrance of the multi-storey where Bombur was walking sideways through the door.

Kili looked up, distracted for just enough time for Fili to take his phone back.

“You snooze you lose,” Fili shrugged to Kili’s protests. “Here you go, Ori, you wanted to draw, right?”

“Right,” Thorin intercepted commandingly, once the rest of the men had joined the group. He exhaled a few wisps of smoke. “Now the Avengers have assembled, should we carry on?”

“Lead the way, Nick Fury,” Kili smirked to Gandalf, and they followed the grey suit up the busy London street.

Bilbo walked in silence beside Balin, listening to the conversations around him: Thorin and Dwalin were conversing with their heads together, too quiet to hear, while Dori and Nori were complaining about wanting a change of clothes; Bofur and Bombur were deliberating over which they fancied more, an apple Danish or a cinnamon bun; Fili and Kili were discussing in great depth which of the group was most likely to be Black Widow and The Hulk; Ori was weaving in and out of the group, acutely interested in his touch-screen drawing, while Bifur was straggling behind, kneeling down in the middle of the pavement to pet a homeless man’s dog and root through his pockets for any pound coins that he could find.

The group did not have to walk far before their destination was apparent; the street which Great Suffolk Street led on to was affluent and modern, buildings stylish and the population being largely business people in clean-cut suits and polished shoes. Bilbo picked at his jumper, feeling conspicuous.

“’Ere, where d’we need to go on Southwark Street, Gandalf?” Gloin asked gruffly, attempting in futility to smooth down his beard.

“To number fifty-nine and a half,” he replied patiently. “We are meeting a few friends of mine in high places. In fact, there is one now.”  

He motioned to a figure standing outside a building made more of glass windows than brick. From what Bilbo could see he was tall and pale, in a jet-black suit and shoes, with hair of the same colour. On getting closer he could see the high cheek bones and willowy, almost feminine, manner the man had of holding himself; his hands clasped behind his back, his long hair held back in a ponytail. On spotting Gandalf, however, the man’s face bloomed into a bright and very genuine smile, dark eyes glittering.

“I want none of you to say a word, am I understood?” he quickly told the group, before returning the grin.

“My friend,” the man greeted Gandalf, embracing him closely. “It is so nice to see you again. You must call occasionally even when you _don’t_ need a favour.”

Gandalf chuckled and patted the dark-haired man on the back. “Well in this day and age it seems I always need a favour.”

The man made a knowing noise and let Gandalf go. “Well, always pleased to assist. And these are all of your… friends?” he queried, looking each man up and down in turn, their bloodied faces and tattered clothes. His gaze lingered on Thorin. “These don’t seem like the type you meet in The Royal Vauxhall Tavern.”

“Oh no, no. These are special friends. Elrond, this is” – he took in a deep breath, pointing to every man in turn – “Oin, Gloin, Dori, Nori, Bilbo, Bifur, Bofur, Fili, Bombur, Kili, Dwalin, Balin, Thorin and uh— that little one over there in the cardigan is Ori.” The men all nodded or mumbled a quiet “hello”. “Everyone, this is Elrond.”

“Indeed. Well, it is a pleasure to meet you all.” Again, his gaze lingered on Thorin. “I hope I may find some way to assist you. Please, come up to the conference room.”

The group turned unsurely to look at each other, then to Gandalf, but he was already tailing the striding figure into the building. They reluctantly followed into 59½ Southwark Street, being immediately met by a grand set of stairs, carpeted in red, with mahogany banisters.

Bombur groaned and held his stomach. “I’ve only had one meal, I can’t deal with this,” he whined quietly to Bofur.

“We’ll get an Indian on the way home, c’mon,” his brother encouraged, and they began the slow trudge of ascent.

“Here,” Ori murmured bashfully to Fili, as he proffered the blond man his phone back. “Thank you for letting me draw.”

“Whoa Ori, is that Fili you’ve drawn?” Kili exclaimed. “It looks better than the actual thing!”

 “Behave yourselves,” Thorin reproved to his nephews as Fili thumped Kili in the arm.

“How’s your daughter?” Gandalf asked Elrond conversationally on the way up, ignoring the shenanigans behind them.

“Oh, she’s fine, thank you. Growing up too fast and running off with that _boy_ every time my back is turned again.” He looked over his shoulder to the group of men when they reached the first landing: “Just two more floors to go.”

Gandalf carried on, regardless. “You know they will remain inseparable no matter how much you dislike it, my old friend.”

“We shall see. With any luck she may go off him. On the note of women I must apologise but Galadriel may be waiting for us. She’s very interested to know why you are here. Though she hasn’t seen you in so long I can’t blame her.”

Gandalf’s lips pursed a fraction, but he said nothing.

“There will be food and drink waiting for you all,” Elrond diverged, raising his voice a little so that everyone could hear him, “so please help yourself.”

There was a ripple of approval through the men, and Bilbo reckoned they suddenly were a lot more optimistic about this visit.

On the third landing, Elrond led them through a large oaken door into a spacious room, inside of which was an oval table surrounded by a cluster of chairs. The carpet was the same shade of red as the stairs, the walls a soft cream. The ceiling was decorated with an artex design and printed off pieces of paper sporting motivational speeches such as ‘“In all human affairs there are efforts, and there are results, and the strength of the effort is the measure of the result.” – James Allen’ in cheap frames were stuck on the walls. A chunky television-VHS combo sat like an unappreciated relic on a trolley-table in the corner, dusty and untouched. In the middle of the table were a number of cheap porcelain mugs with two metal jugs marked ‘tea’ and ‘coffee’, a glass jug of milk and a selection of small sandwiches; cheddar and ham, egg mayonnaise and cress, cheese and wild fungi.

Thorin situated himself at the head of the table, while Elrond and Gandalf sat in the middle of the oval at either side.

“Well s’hardly a beef sarnie,” Dwalin muttered as he took a seat at the table beside Thorin and distastefully picked up a cheese and mushroom sandwich. Dori poured himself a cup of tea, while Bifur helped himself to a cup of milk. Gloin and Fili, who found themselves sitting beside each other, both looked very uncomfortable.

“Fili,” Gloin began softly, “look, about that text, I—”

“Oh no!” Fili exclaimed, quickly cottoning on. “No, Gloin, you don’t understand. See, Kili—”

“Nay, it’s alright, lad. I understand fine. But y’see, I’m married—”

“No, really Gloin, it was Kili, I—”

“And I love my wife, lad, I really do, and maybe if I was ten years younger—”

“I— what?! No! Gloin, I—”

“But I’m sorry, I can’t do it, lad. Not now, not ever—”

“Please, please stop Gloin…”

“And I know it’s hard to resist my animal magnetism, but—”

Dwalin ended the conversation by violently laughing and choking so aggressively on the cheese and wild fungi sandwich that a piece of mushroom shot out of his nose and landed on the table.

Across the laughter and Dwalin’s coughing, Elrond patiently entwined his fingers and cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen, if you please,” Gandalf rumbled in a low, loud voice. The table quickly fell silent, save for the last of Dwalin’s splutters. “Elrond is a busy man, and I would like to get us down to business.”

“To defeat the huns,” Kili whispered under his breath.

“And so to what do I owe the pleasure of the company of you and your friends, Gandalf?”

“Well, see, collectively my friends here— oh, do you mind?” he interrupted himself, holding up his pipe questioningly.

Elrond looked disapproving. “Yes, I do.” He sighed at Gandalf’s pointed stare. “Open a window, though, at least.”

“Ori, would you, please?” Gandalf asked, as he lit his carved pipe with his Zippo lighter. “Thank you, my boy.” He drew in a deep breath. “Where was I? Ah yes.” And blew it out again. “My friends here collectively form an independent group of architects.”

Bilbo blinked in disbelief, a motion which was mimicked by most of the others; Dori choked on his tea.

Elrond raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly. “Of course,” he acquiesced. “And?”

“And they have been employed to design a bank in Dubai, which of course means it can only be the best of the best.” He clasped his pipe between his teeth. “And so I was wondering if we could see the blueprints of the greatest and most secure bank in London.”

Elrond tilted his head. “Oh yes?”

“Indeed.”

“And if I called up the Dubai Economic Council they would—”

Suddenly cutting across Elrond’s speech came the piercing tones of the Morse code SMS tone of a Nokia 3310 on the shrillest and loudest setting.

“Look out, the 90s are calling,” Fili murmured to his brother as Oin fished about in his coat pocket to retrieve the mobile phone.

“Yeah, they want their phone back,” added Kili. They smirked at each other and bumped fists, looking immensely pleased with themselves.

“Is this anything pressing enough to waste Elrond’s very precious time?” Gandalf inquired patiently, though there was a dangerously low tone in his voice.

Oin shook his head. “Just Gloin’s wife asking when he’ll be home. She says he has a child to look after and to get back quickly.”

Gloin bristled indignantly. “Why didn’t she just text _me_?”

“Well because you never answer your phone, you big lug.”

“I’ll give you a big lug, you—”

Elrond loudly cleared his throat. “Gentlemen. May we please return to the business at hand?” Oin put his phone away, looking down at the table embarrassedly “And the Dubai Economic Council would corroborate this, would they?”

“Most certainly.”

Bilbo and Bofur shared a glance which held no confidence.

“Gandalf, do you take me for a fool?”

Before Gandalf could reply, however, a velvety voice came from the doorway: “No one could do such a thing, Elrond.”

Gandalf immediately rose. “Galadriel,” he uttered, each syllable accompanied by a furl of smoke.

The woman was dressed in a bright white trouser suit, the tresses of her blonde hair trailing over her shoulders and back. Her skin was so pale it appeared to glow, her figure wispy and lithe. Her face was dainty and angular, her delicate, long-fingered hands clasped in front of her, a small smile playing on her lips. Bilbo’s first impression, as she surveyed each man with the same degree of moderate interest, was that a strong breeze would see her broken in two or blowing away. As he met her eyes, however, his initial presumptions made way for the idea that she held a lot more power and danger than her exterior revealed.

“Gandalf,” she replied, her voice light and lilting. “It has been far too long.” She embraced him, and he kissed her once on both cheeks. “And I am pleased to make all of your acquaintances,” she said to the rest of the room as Gandalf retook his seat and she stepped into the room.

Under the table Gloin kicked Oin, who was unabashedly staring; even Bombur had halted in his steady consumption of sandwiches to look up at her.

She slowly began to pace around the room. “How is it we may help you today, Gandalf?”

“I’m afraid I must ask something unthinkable of you, Galadriel.” He shook his head, as though deeply apologetic. “I must ask for blueprints and plans of the LMBC.”

Though Galadriel made no reaction, Elrond sighed and shook his head. “I am sorry, Gandalf, it’s just impossible. I cannot—”

“Elrond,” Galadriel interrupted. He instantly quietened. “Do go and find them now, won’t you?”

For a moment he seemed dumbfounded. Then—“But Galadriel, it’s more than our job’s worth! What if we are caught?”

“Then you will explain the circumstances which I’m sure these men have already illustrated for you.” Her tone expressed finality.

Elrond hesitated for a moment before rising. He paused at the door, but left without saying anything.

“Would someone close the door, please?” Galadriel asked as she carried on slowly moving around the table. Ori stood up to do so but Oin got there first, standing by it once it had snapped shut as though to await any further instruction. “Thank you,” she smiled. “Now, I am not going to ask any of you the true nature of this visit. I would rather not know. But you do know Elrond will be calling Dubai right now, my dear?”

Gandalf blew out a ring of smoke, helping himself to a cheddar and ham sandwich. “And I have a number of friends who will indeed corroborate my story.”

Galadriel smiled. “You never appear to be unprepared. Well, fine, we will help all that we can. But don’t think that Elrond won’t fish exactly what it is you are doing out of you.”

“I should hope not,” Thorin suddenly replied in a deep growl.

“Then you are _not_ architects.”

Gandalf’s eyes closed in annoyance. “Thorin Oakenshield, you may be the leader of this company, but I do wish you would listen when I say let me do the talking.”

“As I thought,” Galadriel laughed softly. “Whatever you are doing, I will wish you the best of luck. If you have Gandalf assisting you I am sure it is all for good cause.”

“You’re most gracious, my dear,” the old man smiled appreciatively, throwing a disapproving look at the fuming Thorin.

The handle squeaked as the conference room door opened. Elrond entered, eyebrows lowered in a dark expression, with A1 rolls of paper under his arm. “Apparently everything is in order,” he commented airily.

Gandalf and Galadriel shared a knowing look.

He placed the rolls of paper on the table and unfolded them, not sitting down. The entire group of men leant forwards to see the plans; Bofur took out a notepad to make notes.

“These are the plans for each floor of the LMBC.” He pointed to one piece of paper. “This is the underground car park which leads to” - he pointed to another piece of paper – “the bottom floor and vaults. It’s connected by a service hatch which is constantly monitored, for maintenance workers and such.”

“Then there is another way in,” Kili observed in a whisper.

 Elrond pursed his lips, but made no comment. “There is also the security room, where all the CCTV is watched over. The fuse box is in there too.” Then to another. “The ground floor, for the customer’s transactions.” And to another. “The first floor. The first floor is the office of the bank’s owner and is accessible only by elevator which needs a special code. In the office is a safety deposit box for the owner’s own personal matters.”

Bofur stopped writing, being one of the first to realise what this meant. Then Thorin exhaled a deep gust of air through his nostrils and hung his head – the rest soon followed suit. Bilbo was sure he felt the collective dropping of fourteen men’s stomachs as they hit the floor.

“Thank you, my friend,” murmured Gandalf. “This helps a lot.”

“So, now you know this, are you going to tell me the actual reason why you need these blueprints?”

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies, my dear Elrond.”

He folded his arms. “I believe you already have.” He looked over each man around the table. “Gandalf, could I have a word please. Alone.”

Gandalf met Thorin’s eyes. Then he nodded and rose, putting his pipe back in his suit trouser pocket. “As you wish. Galadriel, would you care to join us?”

“A pleasure to meet you all,” she smiled, before following Gandalf and Elrond from the room. She softly shut the door behind her.

A nervous shudder rippled through the men. Fingers intertwined and beards were scratched; someone cleared their throat, but Bilbo couldn’t make out who. Silence reigned in the conference room: everyone knew they were thinking the same thing as everyone else, but no one wanted to confirm it. It seemed impossible. All eyes looked to Thorin, but he was absorbed in looking over each paper in turn, combing every line and scribbled note.

Dwalin was the first to break the tenuous atmosphere: “So what now, lad?”

Thorin froze. He took in a deep breath, leaning back in his chair. Slowly, deliberately, as though attempting to find a coherent sentence before he spoke, he unbuttoned his suit jacket. “This isn’t the end,” he concluded, removing it. “I think we should—”

The same blaring text tone which cut across Elrond pierced through the room. Oin floundered as he hastened to take his old Nokia from his pocket. “It’s Gandalf,” he exclaimed. “He says for us to go. Now. Quickly.”

There was a moment where no one moved. Then, as one, they all stood and headed for the door.

Thorin took Bofur by the shoulder before he could move. “Have you made enough notes on all of that? For another plan?”

“Aye, we’ll see what we can come up with,” Bofur nodded, though Bilbo was not convinced by his tone of voice. “Ah ah, c’mon,” he added to Bombur, slapping his hands as he reached for the rest of the sandwiches, “we need to go. And you too Bifur, c’mon, quickly now.”

Outside the London Council building the sky was a dusky shade between purple and blue, tainted here and there with the familiar orange. The air was humid, a pleasantly warm summer evening, and there was little traffic; when Bilbo consulted his watch he found that it was nearing eight o’clock, and decided it had been quite a taxing day. There was a strange noise in the distance, like the buzzing of bees, but Bilbo decided he was just tired and ignored it.

“Come on, lad,” Balin smiled kindly, clapping Thorin on the shoulder. “Let’s all go back to the cars. A walk will clear our heads.” Thorin nodded and the group walked soberly back down Great Suffolk Street, this time in silence. Bilbo was beginning to think the buzzing sound wasn’t bees – they appeared to be getting louder.

_Maybe I’m just going mad._

When they had reached the now almost-empty car park, huddled outside the entrance, Thorin turned to the group. He appeared to still be deep in thought and distant, but he looked them all in the eye regardless. In the darkling light of the encroaching evening Bilbo noticed for the first time how old and tired he looked; the dark circles around his eyes, the lines between his brows emphasised in the deep shadows, the distant expression of a man who had lost his final hope.

“I think we should all go home,” he murmured softly. “Get a night of sleep and a change of clothes and…” He trailed off and slid his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers.

“Tomorrow’s a new day, Thorin,” Dwalin encouraged him. “We know more about what we’re up against now, lad. We can’t just—”

Thorin held up his hand to silence him. “What’s that noise?”

It was then that Bilbo realised the buzzing sound in the distance was no longer a buzzing sound; it was also no longer in the distance. It was the cumulative snarl of numerous engines, coming closer, seemingly on all sides; Bilbo looked up, now hearing one of them circling above him, somewhere in the multi-storey car park.

Thorin instantly paled, and for the first time, Bilbo was certain he was afraid.

“Run.”


	6. The Chase

For just a second, everyone was still, eyes frozen and mouths agape. Bilbo couldn’t be sure if it was the muggy night, exhausting day or excess of adrenaline, but he was sure that his eyes were becoming clouded. As the rest of the group scattered, he moved as though in a dream; his legs felt like they were full of helium, colours adopted a faded quality, and he barely heard Bombur puffing, “Does this mean we can’t stop at Tesco now?” as he squeezed into the car park past the barrier.

He was vaguely aware of a hand on his shoulder. “Laddie, you don’t have a car, do you?” came Balin’s voice through the haze.

“No,” Bilbo heard himself reply, “I have a bicycle, and—”

“Come on!” Balin cut in, and for the first time Bilbo could register the panic in his voice. “Come with me.” Balin pushed him into the car park and up the stairs to the third floor. By the time they got there they were both short of breath and Balin was fumbling for his keys. Once he had stopped his hand shaking enough to unlock his scuffed Ford Capri, he wrenched open the door and slid into the driver’s seat, key stumbling over the ignition.

Bilbo clambered through the passenger door, falling into the seat with his shaking legs no longer able to support him. He felt some of the stuffing in the seat push out from a hole under his thigh. “Balin, what’s happening?”

“Seatbelts,” he reminded Bilbo hastily, giving him the impression that Balin hadn’t even heard him. As Bilbo obeyed with shaking hands Balin turned the key in the ignition. The car coughed and spluttered. “Come on, old girl, come on,” Balin whispered, glancing repeatedly into the rear-view mirror. The sound of roaring motorbikes was echoing around the car park, but neither of them could see one yet. Bilbo couldn’t help but think they were being stalked; hunted. The car eventually juddered into life and Bilbo gripped the sides of his seat, hoping against hope that soon he would wake up, safe, in his bed.

Balin swung the car from its space and careered across the almost-empty level, towards the helter-skelter which led to the ground floor. He sped down it and approached the exit. “Oh!” he suddenly panicked, “we haven’t paid the parking ticket? How do we get out?”

As though being answered by some ferocious beast, the air was suddenly full of the sound of a bellowing engine reverberating off the walls. The two men in the little Capri leant forwards to see Dwalin in his Land Rover at the far end of the car park, opposite the barriers which led onto the streets. There was another roar as he pressed his accelerator down to the floor, the screeching of tires, and then he was charging forwards like a bull. He hit the barriers with enough force to snap it clean off and carried it out into the road on his grills, not slowing down to let it fall off.

“Convenient,” Bilbo commented, and hoped the hysterical laugh he heard didn’t actually come out of his mouth. Behind the Capri, Thorin pounded the horn of his Chevrolet Impala, urging every man out of the car park before him.

Balin didn’t need telling twice – he pushed down the accelerator and followed after Dwalin. “Hold on, laddie,” he warned, choking on his strained words.

Being very late in the evening, the sky now turning from navy to black, the roads were mercifully quiet, though not quite enough to avoid the risk of accident. Balin weaved in and out of cars, safe in the gaps left by Dwalin’s chaotic wake. All around them was a hymnal chorus of car horns and cursing drivers, but Balin had no attention to lend to them.

When Bilbo looked at him he was pale, mouth half-open, a green tinge around his cheeks. Somewhere in the pandemonium he had lost his bowler hat, and his flyaway hair was wild and dishevelled. “Balin, what’s going on?” Bilbo uttered. He turned in his seat to look out of the rear window; he could make out the headlights of the company’s cars behind him but then, getting closer even as he watched, motorbikes snaking up behind them. “Who are they?”

“I’m wondering that myself, laddie, but if Thorin says to run I’m not going to stand around and question him.” Then –“Oh bugger.”

Bilbo turned back in his seat just in time to see a huge traffic jam directly in front of them, queuing at a set of traffic lights in anticipation to move onto a roundabout. “Oh, gosh, Balin, I—” His eyes were trained on the back of Dwalin’s car, monitoring what he was going to do; he swerved abruptly and sailed down the wrong side of the road, taking the roundabout towards oncoming traffic. “No, no! Balin, no, I—”

“Hold on, laddie!” Balin declared, seeming to get some steel in his blood. He flicked the indicator before following Dwalin to the wrong side of the road.

Bilbo screamed a long, loud note, gradually getting higher, as they sped around the roundabout. He gripped the handle above the passenger door. “I’m going to die, no, oh no, oh gosh—!”

“Be a good lad and keep the noise down?” Balin inquired mildly, swerving between roaring cars which were seconds before on a collision course. “It’s hard enough to drive as it is!”

Bilbo turned to scream at Balin about how ludicrous that was, about how he wanted to live and retract his contract – only all sound was ripped from his mouth as he set eyes on the dark-clad figure on the motorbike directly outside Balin’s window, keeping its speed at that of the car’s. Bilbo pointed and stammered and blubbered, unable to form the sentence to explain to Balin that they were in immediate danger, but even as he was desperately trying to do so he was rendered silent with dread.

The figure on the motorbike, now using only one hand to steer, raised his other. Bilbo saw it lit in the flashes of streetlights as they sailed around the roundabout; a gun, sleek and deadly, in his gloved hand.

 _I’m going to die._ For a moment Bilbo imagined the face behind the blacked-out visor – the sneering mouth and malicious intent in their pupils – and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ready himself for the end. _I’m going to die and I haven’t even put the bin out yet._

The gunshot rang through the car like thunder locked in the boot. Bilbo felt his stomach jolt and contort in sickening motions, but nothing hurt like he imagined it would. _If this is dying I suppose it’s not so bad._

But the longer he waited, the less sure he was of his demise. Rather than fading out, sounds seemed to be becoming clearer over the faint ringing in his ears which the gunshot had caused; the screeching of wheels all around, what sounded like the _whoosh_ ing of air, Balin’s breathing. Bilbo opened his eyes only when he was sure he felt no pain, but soon wished he hadn’t.

The car was at an angle, sliding down the road on three screeching wheels and one, Bilbo realised, which had been shot. Other cars soared up to meet them, swerving to avoid them just at the last minute, and the cacophony of car horns was still all around. Balin reached down and pulled the hand brake up violently, to which both he and Bilbo were thrown forwards in their seats, held only by their seatbelts. The car halted in the middle of the incoming lane; when the two men looked out of their windows, the motorbike was nowhere to be seen.

Balin and Bilbo looked at each other. Balin looked like he was about to open his mouth to speak, when suddenly the air bags threw themselves from the dashboard with a crash which made both of them yell, and they were both fumbling with their seatbelts to get out, run.

Dwalin, having seen the entire catastrophe in his rear-view mirror, was reversing at high speed back towards his brother’s car. He halted only when his back wheels were mounting the curb of the roundabout and threw open the door. “Balin! C’mon, ge’ in!” Balin scrambled into the Land Rover and slammed the door before they sped away, leaving Bilbo to clamber out of the car, alone.

The realisation hit him like a hammer to the chest, smashing his heart to the floor. _They left me. I’m going to die here._ He looked around him desperately, looking for somewhere to hide. His ears were filled with roaring. _I’m going to die. I’m going to—_

A pair of huge hands grabbed him by the jacket, fingertips digging into his already bruised shoulders. A cigarette was between the index and middle finger of the right hand. He cried out, scrabbling at them, knowing it would be one of the bikers hunting him down; he was about to be stabbed, shot, tortured, _worse_!

“Shut up,” growled the voice at his shoulder. It tasted like fresh tobacco. He was lifted off his feet and he flailed helplessly, feeling tears of panic rise behind his eyes. He was then thrown into a car – but not a boot, as he expected. He found himself on a plush white leather seat – a passenger seat; over the deep rumble of the stopped car, Bilbo could hear the radio or a CD playing in the vehicle. It was a slow, easy-listening tune with low-voiced singer, and seemed completely out of place in the circumstances.

The door was slammed shut behind him, making him flinch, but as he watched the figure move around the bonnet he recognised the heavy steps, the hunched shoulders, in the light of the encroaching headlights.

“Thorin!” he exclaimed as the car’s owner slid into the driver’s seat.

“If you mess up the leather, I’ll mess up your face,” he threatened in greeting. He placed his half-consumed cigarette between his lips before holding the steering wheel and pressing down the accelerator, hard. The car lurched into life like a hare and bounded around the roundabout, turning off at the exit which Dwalin’s Land Rover has disappeared down.

Bilbo hastened to put on his seatbelt, feeling as though his heart was back in his body but was lodged in his throat; he felt the dire urge to vomit. He looked out of every window in turn, able to see no one around except the strangers in their cars around them and Dwalin in front. Again he was struck with the notion that he was being stalked. “Thorin,” he spluttered, “what’s going on? Who are these people?”

Thorin sighed resignedly. “Is that all I get from you, Baggins? No ‘thank you, Thorin’? It’s not as if I saved your worthless behind or anything.” He took the cigarette from his mouth and looked over his shoulder agitatedly.

“You wouldn’t have had to if your friend had let me get in his car!”

“You think Dwalin would have really left you to die if he hadn’t seen me pulling up behind Balin’s car? He’s a big panda really, he wouldn’t have left you, trust me.” He motioned the cigarette towards Bilbo warningly. “Don’t you dare tell him I said that.” Then his brow furrowed. “Hold on,” he growled.

“No, you can’t go over WaterlooBridge!”

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Thorin muttered. He veered to the left as two motorbikes came from the streets on either side of the car, their wheels shrieking as they turned to follow the Chevy Impala.

Bilbo fumbled with his pocket, struggling to pull out his phone. “I-I’m calling the police.”

“No,” Thorin snapped. “I don’t want any police involved. They couldn’t do anything if they tried.”

“But Thorin, I—!”

“Call the police and I throw you out of the car.”

“But—!”

“There are some gloves in the glove compartment. Pass them to me.”

“How can you be thinking about gloves at a time like this?!”

“Just do it, Baggins.”

Bilbo pulled on the handle hurriedly. In the compartment was a collection of neatly stacked CDs, a bottle of anti-freeze and a pair of soft leather gloves. He pulled them out and threw them on Thorin’s lap, eyeing the passenger window for two motorbikes which was no doubt almost on top of them.

Without thanks, Thorin proceeded to pull the gloves on with his teeth, switching the cigarette from hand to hand in order to do so. He tailed Dwalin onto the bridge, weaving in and out of screaming traffic. Pressing the accelerator down into the floor, Thorin charged closer to Dwalin’s car, levelling out at the same speed of the Land Rover when they were side by side. “Baggins, put down your window,” he barked, jamming the cigarette between his teeth.

Bilbo obeyed, and Thorin leant over him, driving one-handedly.

Over the rushing of wind and passing traffic, Thorin roared, “Dwalin, give me an arm!”

As Bilbo watched out of the window, babbling something about being about to crash and burn, Dwalin reached into a duffle jacket and pulled out a Glock G21. In a flash he threw it to Thorin, who caught it by the handgrip.

“Only take out the motorbike wheels, I want no casualties,” Thorin bellowed.

“Aye!” Dwalin replied.

“Split up at the end of the bridge!”

“Aye!”

“Put that cigarette out, laddie!” Balin cried out disapprovingly, before the cars parted and his voice was lost.

“What is that?!” Bilbo cried as soon as he’d found his tongue. He couldn’t take his eyes off the weapon in Thorin’s hand.

Thorin glanced at him, brow furrowing. “It’s a toaster.”

“No it’s not, it’s a gun!”

“Why did you ask then?” He took his eyes off the bridge to look around his seat and out of the rear-view window. “Just make yourself useful and take the wheel, Baggins.”

Before he could, Thorin was opening his window and twisting in his seat to lean out of it. He held onto the top of the Impala with one hand and aimed the Glock with the other. Bilbo cried out as the car began to veer off to the left, straight into the path of an oncoming 59 bus, and jerked the steering wheel to the right. “I’ve never driven before!” he exclaimed.

“Keep it straight,” Thorin barked in an impatient reply. Bilbo glanced over to him in time to see him breathe slowly, deeply, aiming. Then he pulled the trigger.

 _This can’t be happening._ He looked into the rear-view mirror to see one of the motorbikes following them snaking violently across the bridge, its front wheel shot and useless, and its occupant being thrown off against the railings. _This can’t be happening._ There was another shot, presumably directed towards the other motorcyclist, but Bilbo couldn’t make out the shape in the dark. _I refuse to believe it._

“When Gandalf said he was going to invite someone to help in this quest I thought at least he’d be able to drive,” Thorin muttered as he lowered himself back into his seat. He placed the gun in his lap and wound up his window, regaining control of the steering wheel.

“Well I _am_ sorry, but I don’t seem to remember there being anything about _guns_ in the contract!”

He gritted his teeth as he took an abrupt right, then left, then right again down a quieter side street. “Oh there was, something about being able to utilise as much force as is necessary or something like that. It was on page four, or somewhere around there.”

“Surely that doesn’t involve guns!”

“They’re forceful, aren’t they?”

“That’s not the point!”

“The point is if you had a car you never would have seen it.”

“It’s just more convenient for me to have a bicycle, I— Can we get back to what’s at hand?!” He jerked his thumb frantically towards the rear-view window. “Who are they?”

Thorin sighed again. “They call themselves the Goblins,” he admitted in a mutter, as though the word tasted worse in his mouth than his recent intake of tobacco. “They’re an underground group.”

“How are they not all in prison?”

Thorin laughed humourlessly. “They’re slippery bastards. Besides, the police are easily threatened or paid off.”

“And why are they after us?”

He cleared his throats.

“Thorin Oakenshield, you tell me right now.”

“Wow, I wouldn’t have brought you along if I knew you were my mother either,” he spat. “They work for Azog.”

“Azo—Azog?! The loan shark that’s been trying to kill you?”

“Well I haven’t checked the phone book recently to see if there are any more Azogs, but I’m guessing so.”

“How did they find you?!”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Baggins. It’s been five years, so they must have been tipped off by someone? Just finally tracked me down? I don’t know. All I know is that all of us are in danger n— Shit.” Bilbo looked from Thorin to outside the window, just in time to see a packed line of cars directly in front of them. “Hold on.”

“No, you can’t, that’s a cycle lane, I— Thorin, no!” Bilbo hollered.

Thorin ignored him and turned into the lane, speeding down it. “We need to get out of here.”

“You’re going to kill a cyclist! You’re going to— oh my gosh!” He gripped his seat and pushed himself so straight he was hovering above it, toes curling in his shoes in panic. “Thorin, stop!”

Thorin weaved past a group of cyclists in fluorescent gear, earning himself cries of protest, but he merely pushed the volume of the radio louder.

“Thorin!”

“Baggins?”

“Stop!”

“No.”

“Please?!”

“No.”

“I’m going to be sick!”

“Not on the seats.”

“Thorin!”

“What?”

“There are motorbikes coming towards us, right in front of us!”

Thorin cursed, fixing his sharp eyes on them, and threw his cigarette butt out of the window as he mounted the pavement with an aggressive jerk of the car.

“Thorin, no, you can’t turn down here! It’s a market! It’s not for cars! It’s a—” Bilbo shut his eyes and buried his head in between his knees as Thorin turned into the marketplace. He covered his head with his arms and tried to ignore the crashes and screams, Thorin’s cursing and the incessant drone of the radio. “This is not subtle, Thorin!” He heard the snapping of wood and whooshing of cloth, Thorin’s aggravated breathing and what sounded like vegetables hitting the windscreen.

He stayed in his protective position for at least five minutes, determined not to look up, convinced that soon he would be waking up in his bed. He concentrated hard on the radio, trying to block out all else. _I’ll wake up soon._

“Baggins,” came Thorin’s voice from what sounded like very far away when everything was quiet. “Look out of the window and see if they’re still following us.”

Bilbo groaned, deciding he’d rather stab his own foot than raise his head. He placed his hands on his knees and straightened his arms, forcefully pushing himself up. The roads were becoming quieter, and Bilbo guessed they had left the centre of London. He looked out of the back window, fearing the worst, but could see nothing except black night.

“There’s not even headlights,” he murmured, daring to hope that he was right. “I think you lost them.”

“Mm,” Thorin grunted. “Good.” He reached into his pocket, and commanded, “Call Kili,” as he threw his mobile phone into Bilbo’s lap. “Tell him to tell his brother to get them well out of here.”

With shaking fingers, Bilbo navigated through the phone, scrolling down the address book. “Kili isn’t here.”

“Oh yeah, his number is under Thing-2.”

Rolling his eyes, Bilbo scrolled downwards and pressed the dialling button on the instructed phone number. He held it to his ear and listened to the dull ringing three times before it was eventually answered with a worried-sounding voice: “Thorin?”

“Kili?”

“You don’t sound like Thorin.”

“You don’t sound like Kili.”

“It’s not Kili, it’s Fili.”

“And I’m Bilbo, Fili.” His brow furrowed. “Fili? Aren’t you driving?”

“No, Kili’s driving.”

“Kili’s driving?”

“Kili’s driving?!” Thorin roared, “why?”

“Thorin asks why is Kili driving.”

“We panicked,” Fili conceded. “Got in the car the wrong way round.”

“They panicked,” relayed Bilbo.

“Where are they?”

“Thorin asks where you are.”

“We’re uh heading towards a bridge.”

“They’re going towards a bridge, apparently. Fili sounds quite hesitant about it though.”

“Don’t tell Uncle Thorin that!” Fili cried indignantly.

“Ask them which bridge?”

“Thorin told me to ask you which bridge?”

“Uhm… the MillenniumBridge?”

“The MillenniumBridge?”

“The MillenniumBridge?! They can’t go there, it’s a footbridge!”

“We know!” shouted Kili’s voice from over the line.

“We’re trying to shake off these motorbikes, remember. And we _are_ only in a Smart car,” Fili added, trying to sound reasonable.

“They said they _are_ only in a Smart car,” Bilbo repeated.

 “Oh, we’re on the bridge now,” Fili told Bilbo, “whoa you should see these people run, it’s like the parting of the Red Sea. I don’t think that guy’s ever moved so fast. And oh look some woman just hit herself with her handbag, that wasn’t our fault. And a man just threw his shopping over the bridge.”

“That wasn’t our fault either,” Bilbo heard Kili say faintly.

“It may have been our fault though.”

“I’m not telling your uncle that.”

“Not telling your uncle what?” Thorin snapped.

“Have you seen the others?” Bilbo asked quickly. “Did you see if they’re safe?”

“We saw Dori, Nori and Ori went down a little road in their Mini,” Fili informed, “I only saw two people go after them, and Dori’s a good enough driver. They’ll be fine. Bombur’s driving Bofur’s Vauxhall Monterey, and you know how quick a driver he is, so I’m sure they’re already home and dry. I reckon the only problem they’ll be having is Bifur wanting to through himself at these masked maniacs for a fight. I haven’t seen Oin and Gloin, but they’re no doubt shouting at each other somewhere.”

“Everyone’s fine, apparently,” Bilbo summarised.

“Good. Tell them to get out of there,” Thorin instructed, jerking around a corner to avoid a set of red traffic lights. “They have guns.”

“Thorin says to get out of there because they have guns.”

“Guns? Really? Yeah, Bilbo says Thorin says they have guns. Have you seen any guns?”

Kili’s voice was barely audible over the phone line: “Well I haven’t really been looking, Fili, I’ve been trying not to run over pedestrians.”

“You didn’t seem to mind doing that during your driving tes— ow! No, eyes on the road!”

“You mean footbridge,” Bilbo corrected him.

“Fili, tell Kili to get out of there right now!” shouted Thorin, making Bilbo jump. “But don’t go home! Do you hear me?”

On the other end of the line, Fili repeated: “Thorin says not to go home.” Then, “Kili asks why not.”

“Fili says Kili asks why not.”

Thorin gritted his teeth. “Because I don’t want any of these maniacs tailing them to their mother’s house. The last thing I need is my sister in danger.”

Bilbo relayed the information.

“Alright,” replied Fili. “Tell Thorin we’ll go to the arranged meeting place. I’ll text everyone to get them to meet there once they’ve got no one up their arse.”

Bilbo mimicked the information, more politely.

“Fine.”

“Thorin says that’s fine.”

“Excellent. See you later, Bill.” He hung up before Bilbo could protest.

“That’s good of you,” Bilbo commented once he had set Thorin’s phone on the dashboard and set to looking around for any more Goblins.

“What is?”

“Wanting to keep your sister out of trouble.”

“Oh no, she can handle herself against any men,” Thorin shrugged, almost conversationally. “I’d just get in trouble if she found out her children were in danger.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Should’ve known it was too nice of a thing for you.”

Thorin bristled. “What do you mean?”

“Well you’ve put everyone in danger here, haven’t you?”

Thorin flinched. As Bilbo’s watched, his knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. In the flashes of the passing streetlights, Bilbo could see his face was set and stony, eyes fixed on a point in front of him.

_Bugger._

Silence descended in the Chevrolet Impala, thick and palpable. Bilbo almost wished that they were being chased by motorbikes again, if just to disturb the quiet.

“Thorin,” Bilbo murmured after a few moments. He intertwined his fingers, concentrating as he shifted them restlessly. “Look, I… I didn’t—”

Bilbo’s words were lost as the wind was knocked out of him. For a moment he was sure Thorin had punched him; then came the ringing in his ears, the squeal of metal on metal, the crunch of a car which would have to be written off. The only thing he knew was that his head was pounding, there was glass on his lap and Bilbo’s side of the car was wrapped around a lamp post.

“My baby!” came Thorin’s voice from somewhere very far away.

Bilbo tried to reply but his tongue felt like it was full of needles, stuck to the roof of his mouth. He tried to move, tried to see, but nothing seemed to work.

“Baggins, come on!” came the voice through the haze. “Baggins!”

He saw everything that had just happened in his head as though repeating in slow motion: the motorbike slipping out of a side street; the shot slicing through the wheel of the Impala like a pair of jaws; Thorin’s face as he lost control of the car, its wheels spinning; him turning the wheel to the left out of instinct; the smash as the car hit the lamp post and the snarl of the motorbike as it circled the Impala like a shark around blood.

“Baggins!”

He was only just aware of a pair of hands gripping his shoulders tightly, dragging him across the front seat of the car and out of the driver’s door. He was set down on his legs, but even as he stood on them they felt like nothing but white noise.

“Run, Baggins! Run!”

He felt himself being pushed and his legs started working of their own accord, carrying him somewhere away from the glow of the street lamp, the car wreckage. He felt glass cutting into his thighs but didn’t stop. His lungs were screaming, his vision still clouded.

_Run, Baggins._

He allowed himself to collapse against a wall only when all was quiet and all was darkness. 


	7. The Creature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor announcement: A recommendation for this story was written on the Hobbit fanfiction recs on TVTropes! If that was any of you, thank you so much!

When Bilbo regained consciousness, the first thing he found himself wondering was whether his eyes were open or closed. Darkness pressed in on all sides. The sound of an unknown liquid dripped from a height somewhere nearby, but otherwise all was eerily silent other than a high-pitched ringing in his ears.

_Don’t let me be blind. Please don’t let me be blind._

The screeching of the car, the crash, swam into his immediate memory, as though it was a film he had watched years ago and he could vaguely recall. He shifted cautiously, making sure nothing was broken; he was stiff and sore, but he could move everything without too much trouble. One mountain climbed, he set to the next; he felt around him with his fingertips, trying to discern his location.

He was leaning against a brick wall, and the floor was cold and wet. The air was thick and warm; drenched with the scent of old food and stale urination, Bilbo found it difficult to breathe in.

_I have to get out of here._

He placed his hands down onto the floor and felt the damp grime seep into his cuts, but steeled himself and carefully pushed himself up. He used the wall as a tool for helping him stand, regaining his footing on his aching legs and looking around. Something crunched and rustled underfoot, which Bilbo guessed were crisp packets.

Mercifully, he soon found he was not blind: to his left, a very long way away, a sliver of light presented itself, the promise of a street illuminated by the orange glow of a streetlamp. To his right was only darkness and an assortment of torn bin bags, touched here and there by the dull smear of moonlight, as the walls ran further onwards. He realised quickly that he was down a long, dark alleyway, brick walls encroaching on him on both sides.

Gritting his teeth, he listened for the roar of a motorbike or the wailing of police sirens, but none came. As he waited, holding his breath, he felt a twinging in his right thigh. Since his eyes had not yet adjusted enough to look by himself, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and pressed the unlock key, inspecting his leg by the light to find it had been cut by glass in the crash. He peeled back his torn jeans to peer at it, but it was only a superficial wound, and had stopped bleeding sometime while he was passed out. He let out a sigh of relief.

_It appears I got lucky. I hope Thorin’s alright. Maybe he’ll have left me some texts or somethi-_

Before he could check, a skinny grey cat with matted fur circled the light of the phone and slunk past, startling him into letting out a yap of fright and tearing him from his thoughts. It gave him a reproachful look as it wandered past towards a pile – _almost a hill!_ thought Bilbo – of overflowing rubbish bags, torn open, their innards spilling onto the ground, where it would find its next meal.

It was then, and only then, that Bilbo saw movement among the darkness, so close to where he was standing. At first he thought it was water, sliding through the piles of rubbish, but then he realised by the dim light that it was a figure, humanoid in shape but not in movement – far too fluid, far too predatory to be human. It moved towards the cat with careful deliberation and barely a rustle, and the animal itself was too busy with the carcass of a rotting fish to notice.

Bilbo watched, suddenly very afraid, although whether for the cat or himself he wasn’t too sure. He shoved his phone back into his pocket, so not to raise attention to himself, and backed away as quietly as he could. He watched the figure raise a hand – or were they claws? – and strike.

The metallic ringing of empty cans spilling from bin bags filled the alleyway as there was a scuffle; the figure stood up and then the cat was hissing and snarling, held by a firm grip on the scruff of its neck. It squirmed and clawed at its captor’s hands, but the figure jumped on its heap of rubbish triumphantly, singing: "The Felix breath, the jaws of death, the claws-ed feet! The whiskers and tail, all thin and frail, so bare of meat!”

Something flew out of the figure’s pocket and careered towards Bilbo; a dark shape made of harsh lines which were highlighted with white as it careered through the air, landing on the ground almost silently just centimetres from Bilbo’s hand.

 “No more purrs, inside his furs, so juicy-sweet!”

Bilbo reached out and felt the object. The cold, hard metal of a handgrip, the smooth barrel, the trigger.

“And with belly all fat, what a lovely cat, so juicy-sweet!"

He gasped. Then saw the dull light above him as a pair of eyes fixed on him.

The cat was dropped and Bilbo heard it run away through the scattered bin bags with a shrill cry. Without thinking, he stuffed the gun in his back pocket before turning on heel and running towards the sliver of light at the end of the alleyway, the orange glow of the street light so close, and yet so far.

He had barely taken five steps, however, when he felt a hand, cold and clammy, close around his wrist. The skin was dry, like paper, and sharp pieces of broken nail dug into his arm as the grip tightened. He tried to cry out, but the shout was forced out of him in a whimper as he was slammed into the alley wall.

This voice which came from the darkness was that which had just pierced the night with its sadistic song, but now it was quiet and almost soft. "What is it, Precious-ss?" Bilbo noticed it was high and lilting, like that of a child. "What is it?" His hands were all over Bilbo, feeling his arms, his face. Bilbo grimaced and held his breath; the smell of rotting fish and dead things lingered on the fingers. Then the thing growled, its voice lowered, and it snapped, "What is it?!"

"B-Baggins!" Bilbo replied hurriedly in the blind hope that the creature would let him go, feeling its hands in his hair and fear gripping every nerve in his body. "Bilbo Baggins!"

"Bagginses?" the creature replied. He took his hands away from Bilbo and adopted a tone of confusion. "Bagginses? Well we've never had a Bagginses before, has we, Precious-ss? We's had rats and cats and old Greggs sausage rolls, but never a Bagginses."

"Excuse me," the man uttered in a pathetic voice. "Could I just--"

"Is it soft?" inquired the creature. Bilbo felt fingertips poking at his waistline, squeezing his arms, feeling his cheeks. "Is it juicy?"

The hairs stood up on the back of Bilbo’s neck. A crawling sensation rippled up his spine, and he couldn't breathe for the musky, sickly smell all around. He pushed the creature away, to which it hissed, almost cat-like. He felt spots of saliva land on his cheek. "Look," Bilbo began, trying to adopt an authoritative tone, "if you could stop this and help me find the way out of here I would be most obliged."

The creature stopped moving, seeming to consider his words. "Help?"

"Help, yes!"

"We… we help?"

Bilbo nodded, seeing the bright eyes watch his movements.

"Help… help Bagginses?"

"Yes, yes," Bilbo confirmed, feeling a small bubble of hope inflate in his stomach. "Help Baggins. Es."

"No!" the creature suddenly screamed, in a deep, low note. "No, we eats it!"

Bilbo felt any blood which remained in his face drain out of it. "No, no, no, no," Bilbo replied quickly, "we don't eat it. Cannibalism is frowned upon in most societies! A-and Baggins has places to be."

"Places-ss? Places, Precious-ss?" 

The clouds overhead shifted, and a knife’s edge of moonlight filtered down into the alleyway. Had Bilbo looked around he would have seen the pile of rags in front of the hot air vent on the opposite wall which formed some kind of nest, just big enough for a man to curl up in, and he would have seen the things under his feet which he thought were crisp packets were actually the bones of various animals. He found himself sufficiently distracted from his surroundings, however.

The creature, Bilbo realised in the dim light, was not actually a creature at all. It was a man, though not like any Bilbo had ever seen. His skin was blotchy and mottled, a pale shade between peach and grey, blossoming with angry welts and rashes over his face and head, which was bald save for a few wisps of long hair. Bilbo reckoned the stranger would have been taller than him had his back not been contorted into a curve, barely covered by a few rags which he was sure would have once resembled clothes. His fingers were permanently clenched into hands which resembled claws, but it was his face which most struck Bilbo: his eyes were wide and sunken into his waxy skin, circled by dark bags, and his mouth was contorted into an open grimace, exposing his chipped, tarnished teeth and the grey tongue inside which flicked out and licked his thin lips before he spoke again.

"What places for a Bagginses?"

“I uh…” Bilbo uttered, trying to back further into the wall. He felt his legs weaken and his hand went instinctively to the gun in his pocket. “Just a meeting… a meeting place for friends.”

“Friendses? Friendses of Bagginses?”

“Yes, friends.”

“Can we come? We’s never had a friendses before, either! _Shut up!_ ”

Bilbo blinked, confused. “Sorry, what?”

“We wasn’t talking to you,” the man snarled, to which he replied to himself with, “Well yes, yes we was, Precious-ss.”

“Well I was uh,” Bilbo began, trying to cut in before he could continue the conversation with himself, “I was just wondering if you’d mind terribly if I just uh… left?”

“Let it leave? No, Precious-ss, no.” His tone became steadily deeper, more feral. “No. No! _No_! We eats it!” the man snarled, his eyes suddenly narrowing, becoming wild. “We eats it!” He lunged at Bilbo, wrapping his fingers around his shoulders, pushing him against the wall, mouth shining with spittle and drool.

Bilbo’s shout was lost to the dark alley, to the harsh breathing in front of him. _Come on, come on, think! Save yourself!_

“No, no!” Bilbo protested, trying to keep the tone of his voice to one below hysterical. He took hold of the man’s clammy hands and tried to prise them off, just as he tried to ignore the foul breath and broken teeth which could pull him to shreds merely centimetres away. “N-no one eats Baggins, we’re horrible without proper cooking a-and we have… worms in our tubes and, uh, a-and parasites! _Massive_ parasites!”

The grip suddenly relaxed on Bilbo’s shoulders. “Parasites?” repeated the man, and the mild tone of gentle inquisitiveness was back.

Before the man could change his mind, Bilbo stammered the first thing he could think of: “Wh-what’s your name?”

“Name…?” His eyes grew wide, shining dully in the dark. “Name…” He released his hands from Bilbo’s clothes and tangled them together, inspecting his gnarled knuckles and twisted bones. “Murderer they called us… They cursed us… They cursed us!” he snapped. Bilbo flinched, bracing himself for another onslaught, but the man carried on: “And we wept, Precious-ss, didn’t we? We wept to be alone… And we only wish to catch cats so juicy sweet.” He shuffled away from Bilbo. “And we forgot the taste of bread… the sound of treeses… the softness of the wind.”

“London isn’t that bad,” Bilbo joked, trying to laugh.

“We even forgot our own names, didn’t we? Didn’t we, Precious-ss?” Then he doubled over, and a foul sound, like two violent hacking coughs, erupted from his throat.

“A-are you okay?” Bilbo asked, rooting into his pocket for a handkerchief to give to the man. “Are you sick?”

He straightened up as much as his hunched back would allow and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Smeagol,” the man purred.

“Sorry? Sorry, what?”

“Name! Name, Precious-ss! Smeagol!”

“Smeagol,” Bilbo repeated. “Well, Smeagol, how about you uh… how about you help me out of here?”

“Why? Where is the Bagginses going?”

“Bagginses needs to go and meet some friends about a man.”

“What man?”

“Now I can’t tell you that, I—”

But then the voice lowered, and the eyes narrowed. “What man?”

“A uh a big powerful man,” Bilbo quickly blurted, “who stole something who belongs to a— uh— a friend of mine.”

“Stole? Stole their Precious-ss?”

“Yes, yes! Stole their precious!”

“Well we would hate if someone stole our precious-ss, wouldn’t we, Precious-ss?” His tongue lolled out of his mouth before smearing over his lips, and he approached Bilbo like a puppy. “We will help!”

Bilbo grimaced. “Ah ah, don’t come any closer!” He held up his hand and Smeagol halted, looking reproachful. The sound of dripping was beginning to irk him. “I don’t think you can, Smeagol. See it’s a… a precious which is well hidden.”

“Hidden? Hidden where?”

Bilbo swallowed. “If I tell you, will you let me out of this place?” Smeagol nodded. Bilbo looked around as though to check no one was listening. Something which felt suspiciously like a large rodent scuttled behind his ankles. “It’s in a bank… a big bank, which a big, powerful man owns. His name is Smaug. He owns the LMBC.”

“Smaug,” Smeagol repeated, drawing out the ‘s’ like gas hissing from a tiny hole in a pipe. “And…” He looked over his shoulders as Bilbo had done, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “And what is the precious-ss?”

Bilbo felt a twitch develop at the side of his mouth. “You’ll let me out of here, won’t you? Once I tell you?”

“Doesn’t he believe us, Precious-ss?” Smeagol whispered, and Bilbo could hear the threat in his words, crawling over his tongue like a spider and injecting each sound with malice.

“Wait, wait! Alright! It’s a diamond. A really, really big diamond.”

“And your friendses? They wants it back?”

“Yes.”

“They’re going to steal the precious-ss from Smaug?”

“Y— well, no, not really. I mean, you can’t steal what’s rightfully yours, can you?” He shivered when Smeagol did not answer, pulling his jumper tighter around him. He felt the muzzle of the gun press into his thigh. “A-alright? Will you let me go now?”

“Go? Go now?” He laughed in short rasping breaths. “No, Precious-ss, no!”

“But you said you would let me go!”

Smeagol pulled his hand from behind his back, his gnarled fingers crossed. He clapped at his own genius, and the sound reverberated around the alleyway, sounding like the chattering of the pincers of a hundred bugs.

Bilbo’s shoulders sagged; he looked at the end of the alley and knew if he ran he wouldn’t get far. “Look, this isn’t a game, I—”

“Games-ss! Oh, games, we likes games! Doesn’t we, Precious-ss?” He jumped animatedly, his lips stretching around his gums as he smiled. “Yes, yes!” He leered at Bilbo, cleared his throat and spoke slowly, deliberately, drawing out every syllable:

 

“I never was, but am always to be,

No one ever saw me, nor ever will see.

I can’t rise with the sun; I die at first light,

Yet I am still strong with seconds to midnight.

But still I am the future of all,

Who live and breathe on this little round ball.”

 

Bilbo bit his lip as he considered each word in turn, making sure he knew it rightly enough. He took a deep breath and licked his lips. “Tomorrow. The answer is tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes!” Smeagol nodded, before throwing back his head and rasping out a few notes of laughter. “Oh this is fun, isn’t it, Precious-ss? Another! Go on, go on! Ask us another!”

“Riddles?” Bible pondered contemplatively. “You like riddles?”

“Riddles, riddles-ss! Yes, Precious-ss!” Then he doubled over and coughed again, and meandered away down the alley, muttering darkly, “No, we’re wasting time, we eats it now! Finish him!” He turned, straightening as he did, and prowled back towards Bilbo.

“No no,” Bilbo replied hastily, stepping backwards. Smeagol hissed and spat at him. “I want to play.”

His eyes widened. “Yes?”

“Yes. Yes, I do, I want to play. So” – he squatted down a little, to meet Smeagol’s height – “how about- how about you and me have a game of riddles? Hm? Just us.”

“Just us? Yes, yes!”

Bilbo lowered his voice to a whisper more suited to be heard by a child. “But, if I win, you show me the way out.”

Smeagol breathed heavily as he considered this, strumming his lip with his index finger. “And- and if we win? What then, Precious-ss?”

“Well… what would you like?”

Smeagol pursed his lips, face screwed up from thinking hard. He turned away from Bilbo and hunched over, whispering: “What does we want, Precious-ss? What does we want from the Bagginses?” and then he snapped, apparently at himself, in the harsh bark of a voice, with, “Nothing, nothing except his flesh and bones!”

Bilbo leant closer, feeling the prickle at the back of his neck as his hair stood on end.

“Well yes, of course, Precious-ss! He does look very juicy sweet! But games, Precious-ss, games-ss!”

“Enough of your games! We eats it now!”

“No, Precious-ss! We plays its games fair and square, and _then_ we eats it.” Smeagol suddenly turned, and Bilbo found his face unbearably close to that of the stranger’s. His lips twitched and he concluded mildly, “If Baggins loses, we eats it whole.”

Bilbo stared into Smeagol’s bloodshot eyes under the saggy lids, not quite knowing whether he was being serious or not. His brow furrowed as he searched for some sort of reply. _Either way what choice do I have?_

Eventually, he decided on a simple, “Fair enough,” and straightened up.

Smeagol laughed. “Bagginses first!”

Bilbo pondered swiftly, searching for any riddles from his childhood on the edge of his subconscious. He looked around for inspiration and glanced up at the dark sky, tinged with orange from the London light pollution. He nodded, decided:

 

“They come in their thousands on little white steeds,

By one they are massacred, but none ever bleeds.

They watch the watchers, over their heads,

Restless, they protect those asleep in their beds.

They disappear from view, but by no thief are they taken,

For what does not sleep can never awaken.”

 

Smeagol took in Bilbo’s words, his brow progressively furrowing. He paced down the alley and back up in great, lumbering lurches, his bare feet patting on the damp floor. As Bilbo watched with delight, sure he was about to win, Smeagol’s face contorted with confusion; he grimaced and groaned, muttered and moaned – but then: “Starses?”

Bilbo’s shoulders slumped.

“ _Starses!_ ” he exclaimed, and, with surprising agility, slunk back towards Bilbo. “Keep thinking about them,” he hissed, “just in case you doesn’t see starses again.”

Bilbo gulped.

“Our turn,” Smeagol snarled. He moved steadily towards Bilbo as he spoke, gradually backing him into a corner.

 

“Only one colour, but not one size,

Fixed, ever-present, yet easily flies.

Close friend in sun, betrayer in dark,

Leaving no trace and leaking no mark.

An immortal life, not easily slain,

Doing no harm, and feeling no pain.”

 

Bilbo swallowed, closing his eyes as though it would block out the smell around him, the encroaching fear gripping at his limbs and making his heart pound. He found that not being able to see Smeagol only added to the fear, however, and quickly reopened them.“Not one size,” he muttered, “and seen in sun but not in dark.”

“Give up?” Smeagol goaded. “We’ll make it quick, as long as you don’t strug-”

“Shadow!” Bilbo shouted. “The answer is a shadow!”

Smeagol’s upper lip folded back in a snarl. His hands clenched into fists. “Ask us.”

Bilbo floundered, desperately running through his mind for another riddle. _Come on, come on._

“Ask us!” he demanded.

“Hold on, hold on! I can’t think, give me a moment to think!”

“If you can’t think, you can always forfeit,” Smeagol growled, deep in his throat. “You can always let us eats y-”

 

“St-straight from a bar from which no wine flows,

From a dish with no food to eat.

You put it on you to take things off,

From your head down to your feet.

Just like a beer it bubbles and froths,

Refreshes you just like cool water.

But for all of its good points, you don’t seem

To use it as much as you oughta.”

 

Bilbo thought it was very easy, and knew that his panic had sent him into formulating rhymes about the thing he most wanted at that moment, but when he saw Smeagol’s face he decided that he had done rather well.

Smeagol exhaled his breath out through the gaps in his teeth, titillating the spittle on his lips and making a low-pitched bubbling sound. He hissed to himself, whispered and spluttered, but still he didn’t give an answer.

“Well?” demanded Bilbo, for both impatience and the concern that Smeagol would get bored and return to trying to eat him before the end of their game. “What is it?”

“Give us a chance!” He shook his head wildly. “Make it give us a chance, Precious-ss!”

Bilbo tapped his foot, watching Smeagol as he deliberated and wondered, giving him a good long chance. “It’s not a kettle boiling over, as you seem to think from the noises you’re making.”

“Hush, Bagginses!” Smeagol spat, screwing up his face in concentration. Then realisation dawned on his countenance as it came to him, as though from a long-lost memory suddenly surfacing. “Soap!” he cried. “Soap it is!” Without hesitating, he gurgled:

 

“I am made of four parts, without one I’m not whole,

I lack a voice, feeling, body or soul.

I die without air, yet I have no breath,

I am the mother which sustains life and death.

I live in the oceans, the rivers and seas,

Yet still I float on water and fly on the breeze.

With me together, I am through generations cherished.

Without me, you’d most likely have perished.”

 

Bilbo cleared his throat two or three times, waiting for an answer to come as he mulled over every word in turn. Nothing came to him but contradictions. He wished at that moment that he was at home, in his armchair, reading the riddle from the evening paper when it would not mean that it meant the difference between his life or funeral. “Fo-… sorry, did you say four parts?”

Smeagol hissed, pleased. “I wonder if it’s nice, my Precious. Is it soft? Is it scrumptiously crunchable?”

“Wait!” Bilbo rebuked, shivering. “I gave you a good long while just now!”

Smeagol swayed on the spot, licking his lips. He bared his jagged teeth.

“Four parts…” A gust of warm, dank air passed Bilbo’s face, and he wrinkled his nose. The dripping nearby seemed to get louder. A young boy’s voice nearby was shouting something about hiding fireworks, and the ground beneath his feet seemed more physical, as though they were exerting more pressure on his brogues. _Wind, liquid, firework, ground…_

“Air, water, fire, earth!” Bilbo gasped triumphantly. “The four elements!”

Smeagol let out a cry like a wounded animal, clutching his skull. “No, Precious-ss, no!” When his wild eyes fixed back on Bilbo he was breathing heavily, hands clenching and unclenching. “One more! Just one more chance, Bagginses.”

“U-uh,” Bilbo stammered, feeling very claustrophobic and unable to think. The lack of sleep and food was suddenly weighing heavily on his brain, now that the adrenaline was wearing off. He felt his eyelids growing heavier despite himself.

“One more question,” Smeagol whispered to himself absently, stroking the back of one hand with his other. “Just one more question to guess, Precious-ss, yes, yes-ss. Then we finish it.”

“Let me… Let me just…” Trying to keep himself from being overtaken by sleep and hunger, he moved slowly from his confinement in the corner, watching the man’s eyes watch him. “Let me think.”

“Ask us!”

“Let me think!”

“ _Ask us a question!_ ”

Bilbo felt the muzzle of the gun digging into the top of his thigh as he walked and, more out of instinct than proper intellectual consideration, he blurted, “What have I got in my back pocket?”

Snarling, Smeagol physically recoiled. “What? But… that’s not fair. That’s not fair!”

“You said for me to ask you a question,” Bilbo quickly justified, “and that was my question.”

Smeagol writhed and cried out. “It must give us three guesses!”

“Fine.”

“Handses!”

Bilbo held up his hands. “Wrong. Guess again.”

He panicked, looking around him desperately, lumbering over to the mountain of bin bags and rooting through. “Campbell’s soup tin, no! Banana skin, no! Chicken wings, Baguette Express, Durex – no, no, no, no, _no!_ ” He threw everything over his shoulder as he inspected it and, among the skittering noises of rotting things rolling down the alley, Bilbo began to step slowly backwards.

“Mobile phone?!” he said at last, turning to gaze at Bilbo through the dark.

He pulled his phone out of the front pocket of his jeans to prove his response: “Nope. One more guess.”

“String!” Smeagol cried, and then added, voice low and dark, “or nothing.”

“That’s two guesses, both wrong,” Bilbo declared triumphantly.

Smeagol bellowed a long, shrill note and collapsed to the floor in a heap, rocking and shivering. “No, Precious-ss, no,” he repeated to himself in a murmur, his voice adopting a chanting, hypnotic quality.

“I… hello?”

Smeagol ignored him, his mouth moving but no words coming out.

“So I uh… I’ll be going now.” He took another step backwards, towards the orange streetlight glow.

“Did we say so, Precious-ss?” Smeagol asked softly. “Did we say it could leave us? Did we say we’d let the nasty little Bagginses go? Yes-ss, Precious-ss, yes-ss. But what has it got in its pocketses?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Smeagol leered at Bilbo, reaching surreptitiously reaching into a small pouch secured around his waist. His fingers pushed inside, feeling for his one defence, his one protection. His eyes widened when he felt nothing but damp material; empty.

He let out a screech which sent chills down Bilbo’s spine like the strings of a ferociously played cello. He cursed and wailed, suddenly scrambling and clawing at the ground around him, searching in the gloom. “Where is it?! Where is-ss it?! Lost, my precious, lost! My precious is lost!”

In hindsight, Bilbo knew he should have turned on heel and run away as fast as his legs would carry him then. However, bewildered, he stayed: “Lost? What’s lost?”

“It mustn’t ask it, it mustn’t ask! Not its business! It’s lost!” He stopped just long enough to hack a few of his coughs from his lungs before carrying on his frantic search. “Lost! Lost! The precious!”

“What have you lost?”

“The precious! We must find it, we must!” Suddenly Smeagol halted on his frenzied search. His head swivelled as his eyes fixed once more on Bilbo. “If not string or nothing,” he hissed, “what has it got in its nasty pocketses?”

Bilbo felt his breath hitch under the intense scrutiny of Smeagol. The creature’s eyes looked as though they were burning. He looked over his shoulder, could see the end of the alley way, the quiet road beyond. _Run, Bilbo. You can make it._

Smeagol stood, quivering with rage. “What has it got in its _nasty. Little. Pocketses._ ”

Bilbo turned and bolted as fast as his legs would take him, tearing his eyes off the creature just as he saw it spring towards him from the floor on all fours as though pouncing on prey. He reached to the handgrip of the gun in his back pocket, pulled it out and blindly pulled the trigger. He had expected nothing to come out, not knowing whether it was actually loaded, so when a bang cut through the night and a flash lit up the alley way behind him he let out a yell of sheer terror.

Then he felt the hand around his leg.

Tumbling to the ground, Bilbo’s cheek hit the floor and he tasted blood from between his teeth. He heard the snarls and growls for the precious from behind him and kept his hand firmly on the gun. Grunting from the effort, his body finally screaming at him for respite, he kicked out wildly, refusing the creature to get more purchase on his body, thrusting his legs out until he felt his heel connect with skull, until there was a blood-curdling shriek and the hand relinquished its grip, and he was already running out into the cool, empty street, under the soft glow of the streetlamp, before he had found his feet properly.

He heard the screams and wails, the curses and threats behind him, and didn’t stop until he could hear them no more.


End file.
